


Count to five, do it again

by FeelingsDusk



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Issues, Common reaction (mine): evil cackle, Common response: wtf is going on???, Creepy, M/M, Mystery, Oppressive atmosphere, Silent Hill-y, Spooky, Stiles centric at first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-02-08 19:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12871398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeelingsDusk/pseuds/FeelingsDusk
Summary: He has a routine. Routine is good. Shower, clothes, teeth. Open window, check phone's battery, tuck it in pocket, turn on laptop. Tidy room, make bed. Stand in front of the door, take in a shuddering breath, count to five. Breathe out, count again. Take in a steadier breath. Try and fail to touch the lock. Count again. Unlock the door. Wait. Listen. Breathe.One, two, three, four, five. Again.(For the flavour of your choice day.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still writing this but I'm sure it will have six chapters. Hopefully. Seven? *Awkward laughter.
> 
> Also, damn. I had so much trouble thinking a title and a summary that wouldn't give everything away!

Stiles wakes up with a gasp, his heart jack-rabbiting in his chest and its pounding deafening in his ears. He lies in bed, taking deep shuddering breaths and trying to force his body to stop shaking. A bead of sweat crawls slowly across his temple until it disappears at his hairline and he grimaces, disgusted with himself. Dammit, Stiles.

_The door is locked._

_She can't get in._

_She's not even in the house._

_She hasn't been for a while._

(Stiles can't recall the last time he was able to go to bed with his door unlocked.)

(He can't remember the last time he slept peacefully either.)

He takes a deep breath and then another. He counts to five and then does it again. Then he forces himself to push the covers away and to get up. People say that it's fine to waste the day away if you can when you don't feel like doing anything, but nowadays Stiles would waste his entire life away if he lived by that motto, so he doesn't let himself give into temptation.

He has a routine. Routine is good. Shower, clothes, teeth. Open window, check phone's battery, tuck it in pocket, turn on laptop. Tidy room, make bed. Stand in front of the door, take in a shuddering breath, count to five. Breath out, count again. Take in a steadier breath. Try and fail to touch the lock. Count again. Unlock the door. Wait. Listen. Breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Routine is good.

He never lingers in the shower and today's not any different. Less than five minutes later he's toweling himself dry briskly. He leaves his pajamas and the towel in the hamper. He'll come back for them after breakfast and take his dad's laundry too, if there's any. He chooses his clothes quickly and puts them on equally fast. As he brushes his teeth, he opens the window, checks the phone's battery and then tucks it in his pocket. Before going back to the bathroom to spit out the toothpaste, he turns on his laptop. Then he tidies his room and makes his bed.

He stands in front of the door, takes in a shuddering breath, counting to five, and then breathes out, counting again. He breathes more. He reaches to touch the lock and chickens out mere millimetres away. He counts again.

He grabs the lock and immediately freezes. Why is it unlocked?! He never- he never leaves it unlocked, he just doesn't! He's been thinking about it, he has, but he hasn't been able to do it yet! So why is it unlocked then?! There's no way he forgot. It's impossible. It's- No- He wouldn't-

_She's not in the house._

_She hasn't been for a while._

He forces himself to count. He waits. He listens. He breathes.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

_She's not in the house._

_She hasn't been for a while._

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

He's been thinking about it for a while anyways. Isn't this better? He slept without locking himself in and nothing happened. This is good. This is what he wanted. It is. Now he just has to get used to it. It won't be easy but he will. And it will become routine for him. Routine is good.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

_Routine is good. ___

____

____

He leaves his room when his hands have finally stopped shaking. He swallows thickly and then he hurries down the stairs, because they always give him a chill down his spine but for some reason that response's intensity has multiplied tenfold today. He doesn't remember ever falling down the stairs, even as a little kid, so it's ridiculous and irrational. He knows that, he really does, but he's still uncomfortable and unwilling to challenge his limits further today, when he's already spooked by the incident with the lock. He'll try another day, of course, because he refuses to live his life crippled by his fears. But not today.

Today he's already won. Today he managed to not lose his mind because his room was unlocked. Today he recognized the signs of his anxiety skyrocketing and controlled his reaction. Today he's a champ and he deserves a break. Today he's just going to follow his routine and chill. Because routine is comforting and soothing. Because routine is good.

Which means he takes care of his daily chores first.

He used to hate dusting and sweeping the floors but nowadays he doesn't mind because the repetitive movements sooth him. For some reason, at some point his mind empties completely and by the time he's done, he always feels settled and centered again.

He grabs the cleaning tools that he needs and gets on with it. It takes him a little more time to reach that fugue state today, but Stiles has learned to not get anxious or frustrated about that, and he just lets it run its course. Sometime between tidying the living room's table and dusting the shelves beside the TV, the jittery feeling in his limbs disappears and he doesn't have to focus on breathing anymore.

When he's done, he starts preparing lunch to go. According to his dad's schedule, he should be free after lunch, but Stiles knows better than to expect him to come home. Lately his dad is pulling a lot of extra hours at the station. (Or, if he's not there, he's visiting her at the hospital, but his dad knows to let Stiles know when he's going to be there and he hasn't today.) He only comes home sporadically and more often than not, Stiles finds out about it because he has left his dirty clothes in the hamper. If left to his own devices, his dad will eat takeout for every meal of the day, and Stiles will not have that because one scare was one too many. So this past week, since it's summer vacation and he can, he's boxed a lunch and swung by the station every day. Stiles figured that way he'd get the chance to spend some quality time with his dad in addition to watching his diet. Kill two birds with one stone and all that.

While the rice cooks, Stiles prepares a big mug of coffee and munches on some cereal absently. He's not very hungry, but he's learned his lesson and he tries to at least have something solid (cereal, scrambled eggs, for example) even when he's not feeling like it.

With the mug of coffee in hand, he goes outside to pick up the newspaper, but he doesn't find it in its usual place. He frowns and looks around for it for a bit before giving up. Grumbling, he goes back inside to search for the customer service's phone number. He tracks it down easily and calls. The ringing goes on and on, but no one picks up. Stiles frowns and tries again, getting the same results. How strange. In the end he leaves a message in the answering machine and makes a mental note to check if the complaint went through later.

He puts the cereal back in its cupboard and starts preparing the vegetables and the chicken that go with the rice. Stiles tastes them after they're done and nods satisfied. He's no Jamie Oliver but it's good. (Or good enough that he won't have to spend half the lunch time convincing his dad to eat the vegetables, that is.) He leaves them to cool down on the side. While the rice cooks, he takes a notepad and does the grocery list. When the alarm for the rice rings, he turns the stove off and sets it aside too.

It's still too early to go to the station so he hurries up the stairs and goes back to his room to work on one essay he's pretty sure he'll be assigned when school starts in September.

Stiles does this every year. His ADHD is a bitch to deal with sometimes, even with the Adderall, so every summer he prepares a bunch of essays when he's feeling inspired. There are some topics that teachers repeat every year, so this method hasn't failed him yet. In fact, last year he only had to do one lone essay, so Stiles calls his method a huge success. His grades have never been better, really. Although, to be fair, Finstock will always give him a good grade no matter what he turns in... if it's well researched, that is. Stiles is pretty sure that the man welcomes the change after having to read more than twenty essays on the same exact topic. Stiles hasn't been able to decide if he loves the man or hates him yet, and he doesn't think he'll ever be certain.

He opens the folder that contains all the essays and frowns because it's taking too long to load. The computer has been getting slower and slower ever since he updated the OS, and he regrets installing the new version. (He should get a new computer, but Stiles never changes what he has until it doesn't work at all.) The folder's content finally shows up and he clicks on the document he wants to work on. He taps his fingers against the wood of his table and waits for it to open. When it finally does, he starts working. And that's a feat in and of itself, because these essays are so, so _boring_. He doesn't even need the Internet to compose them, it's that bad.

Minutes tick by slowly. His attention lasts about twenty minutes on the intricacies of white-washed American history before he starts thinking about his grocery list, so he tries the Physics essay instead. About forty minutes later, his eyes start straying every ten seconds to that stubborn stain on the wall that just refuses to be cleaned no matter what he tries, so he calls it a day. Despite feeling frustrated about how little he's written, he pats himself on the back for the progress.

With a sigh, he saves the document and then turns off the computer. It's still a little early but he'll just drive to the station anyways. He can always talk to Tara for a bit. Stiles likes Tara. She's funny, nice and doesn't look at Stiles like he's a ticking time bomb.

(Stiles will never forget it. The feel of the walls closing down on him, his clothes too tight, the lights too bright, the sounds too loud despite the deafening ring in his ears. _Dad-dad-dad_ he was crying as deputies rushed in. _Dad-dad-dad_ he was crying as they took him away and loaded him into the ambulance. _Dad-dad-dad_ he was crying into her arms as it sped away.)

(She calmed him down, she brought him to the hospital, she held his hand as they waited for news.)

(Stiles likes Tara a lot.)

He goes back to the kitchen. He takes the food out of the pan and divides it into two containers carefully. He places them inside a bag along two cups of yogurt, two bottles of water, napkins and eating utensils. He washes what he used to cook, dries it and then places it back in its place. He takes in the sight of the clean kitchen with a mental satisfied nod.

After a moment of consideration, he also packs a couple of the chocolate cookies that he knows Tara loves. She's going to glare at him something fierce, because she's been trying to cut out the chocolate and he shoots her determination straight to hell every time he shows up with his homemade cookies. As always, he'll compromise and eat one of them for her. Stiles smiles in anticipation. He likes Tara a lot.

He heads to the mudroom to put on his sneakers. Once he's done he grabs both the house and the jeep's keys from the basket on the shelves to the right and exits, closing the door behind himself.

An extremely dark sky greets him the moment he's out and Stiles frowns. He doesn't remember it being this dark when he went looking for the newspaper a couple of hours ago. The dense clouds filling every inch of the sky are the type of really dark grey that forebode a big storm in the near future. Strange, because the weather lady had forecast sun and high temperatures for the rest of the week.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time they are wrong, he thinks absently. For a moment he considers going back to grab an umbrella, but then he decides against it. He shrugs mentally and goes to his jeep. He climbs into the driver's seat and settles the food on the passenger side, making sure it's secure and won't go flying everywhere every time he steps on the brakes. Then he fastens his seatbelt and inserts the key in the ignition.

Before turning the jeep on, he calls his dad to let him know he's on his way, like he always does. It rings and rings but no one picks up. He tries again and it goes straight to voicemail. Stiles sighs. His dad must be busy if he's not picking up. He hopes he won't show up there only to see his dad is gone. It's wouldn't be the first time, but it would suck all the same.

When he turns the key, the jeep emits a pitiful sound and Stiles cringes.

"Oh, come on," he groans. "No, no, no. Don't do this to me."

He tries again and again but to no avail. He lets his head hit the wheel and whines. He's already had to send his poor Roscoe three times to the shop this past month. If his dad finds out it's broken again, he may decide retire his baby for real this time.

"Come ooonnn," he whines, turning the key one more time.

He sighs. What a wonderful, wonderful day. He takes out his phone and dials his dad's number. It goes to voicemail after a few rings. Stiles takes a deep breath and calls the station instead. It rings and rings but no one picks up. He raises his head from the wheel and frowns at his phone, an uneasy feeling starting to creep in. He calls again.

No one picks up.

That's not normal. Not at all. He calls again. No one picks up. He swallows thickly. Ok. Ok, there must be a completely normal and rational reason for it. No need to worry.

He calls one more time.

No one picks up.

Stiles' heart speeds up. He gets out of the jeep and paces beside it. He calls again, again and again. No one picks up. He takes a deep breath. He counts to ten. He counts again. He paces. He calls. He breathes. He counts. He calls.

No one picks up.

Stiles knows himself, he knows this slippery slope like the back of his hand and how he's going to go down, down and down. He sits down where he stands. He breathes, he counts, he breathes, he counts. Because it's not about not being anxious, it's about not letting his anxiety have the upper hand.

Panicking won't help. Getting anxious about his dad or the station not picking up the phone won't give him the answers he needs. Being calm and getting there to see what happened will. The jeep is broken, and that's undoubtedly bad luck, but his legs work just fine. It could definitely be worse.

He walks a few steps before he remembers the food in the jeep. He bites his lip and then goes back to retrieve it from the passenger's seat. Because everything is _fine_ , there's just a problem with the phone or something. In about one hour he'll be eating lunch with his dad and this will be just a stupid scare. His dad will grumble at the lack of red meat and the abundance of veggies in his lunch. He'll make noises about getting a Meat Lovers pizza that Stiles will absolutely not let him have. Stiles will roll his eyes at Tara when he leaves and mouth how he's making a tofu burger instead. She'll snort and Stiles will smirk. And this will be just a stupid scare. Just his mind playing tricks on him again.

He walks and walks, his mind focused on that to keep his anxiety in check. It's unusually quiet today and that's not helping, because there are no distractions to occupy his thoughts with. But it seems like the horribly dark clouds have scared his neighbors away today. Not even old Mrs. Lyle is outside, and Stiles is convinced that woman feeds off rumors and gossip instead of actual food.

He walks more and more. Halfway through, his stomach is in knots despite his resolve to not let anxiety steer the boat. He speeds up into a jog. The more time passes, the more he notices that he hasn't crossed paths with anyone. No cars, no people. Not even animals. The only sound that reaches him is that of a distant thunder.

It's not normal. This is not normal. Now that he thinks of it, he didn't even hear Mr. Paulson's dog. And that little ugly beast (as ugly as his owner's personality) is the kind of yappy dog that _never ever_ shuts up. It continuously drives Stiles crazy because it distracts him when he's working. But nothing today. Not a peep from the little monster. Just. It's not normal.

He breaks into a run, unable to rein himself in. He runs and runs, never seeing anyone in the streets. No vehicles, no people, no animals. An utter silence only broken by own his harsh breath and the thunder of the oncoming storm.

He runs and runs and runs.

When he reaches the station, he nearly sobs in relief. He composes himself and takes a deep breath. Because he's just being overdramatic and silly, and if Tara or his dad see him like this, they'll worry. And he doesn't want the other deputies to look at him like he's a ticking time bomb again. He breathes, he counts, he dries his face with his sleeve, he counts again.

He looks down and remembers he was carrying the food while running like a madman. He looks to make sure that the containers didn't spill anything inside the bag. He's been lucky and the tupperware held. It all will probably be a little scrambled but it doesn't matter because it will taste just as good. He sighs relieved. Then he plasters on a smile and pulls the door to open it. His greeting dies before it even goes past his lips. His smiles falls, just like the bag.

"Dad?" he calls into the empty station, trying to not let his voice tremble. " _Dad?_ "

Stiles breathes and counts and counts and counts. He's just overreacting, there must be a perfectly logical explanation for what's happening. He's being silly. There's no sign of a fight or anything like that. Paperwork is lying around in controlled chaos just like always. The computers are still on, as well as the air conditioning.

Stiles swallows thickly and crosses the bullpen until he reaches his dad's office. The door is open as always and he swallows again. He takes a step in and finds it empty. Stiles' hands tremble as he reaches to take out his phone. He calls his dad and it goes to voicemail. He calls again. Voicemail.

Call.

Voicemail.

Call.

Voicemail.

Call.

Voicemail.

Call.

Voicemail.

Stiles trembles. Then he breathes and counts again. There must be a logical explanation for this. Maybe he's missed something? Maybe... maybe... Maybe there's something in the news? Maybe...

He calls his dad. He dials each digit instead of just using the already saved contact. Maybe he... maybe he somehow edited the contact and that's why it's not working. Yes, that must be it.

It rings and rings and rings. And then.

"Dad!" Stiles shouts when it connects. Relief is a hot and then wet and cold sensation. "Where-"

" _Stiles, oh kiddo,_ " his dad cuts in. He sounds on the verge of tears and it makes Stiles' heart constrict. " _I'm so sorry! I'll make it right, I promise. I... Please, please..._ "

"Dad? What's happening? Where are you?! Where's-"

" _I'm so sorry, kiddo,_ " his dad continues. " _I promise I'll find a way to bring you back. Please, plea-_ "

And then the call gets cut.

"NO," he cries. "NONONO!"

He dials again, number by number. It rings and rings and rings. And then. Voicemail.

\---

He calls 911 and no one picks up.

\---

The air smells of vomit, sharp and pungent. His limbs won't stop shaking. His head is pounding, a sharp staccato beat that matches his racing heart. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

\---

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Again.

And again.

And again.

\---

He pushes himself up with shaky arms that threaten to give up on him the moment he shifts some weight onto them. He has to find his dad. He has to. Panicking and giving into his anxiety won't give him back. He can do this. He'll find his dad. He will find him. He will. He's strong. He may have problems and struggle with things, but he's strong. His legs may be shaking but they will still carry him. He's strong, he'll do this, he'll find his dad.

\---

First, he searches the station thoroughly but nothing weird jumps to his eye, which is weird in itself.

There are the usual piles of paperwork on Johnson's desk, the usual mess of coffee cups on Michaels' and the usual notebook on Tara's. Usual, usual, usual. Nothing out of the ordinary there. His dad's office doesn't look any different either. Same piles of pending cases to the left, family picture to the right, same things in the drawers, same locked safe. The evidence room is locked, the cells at the back are empty and closed, the changing room is tidy but showing the usual signs of use. The breakroom is still somewhat tidy and the coffee machine in it is still broken while the refrigerator is working perfectly well and has the deputies' labelled lunch inside.

For all intents and purposes, it looks as if everyone just got up and left, leaving everything as it stood. Stiles swallows thickly. He needs a working TV and he needs it now.

When searching the station fails, he leaves it and looks around nervously. Still no one but himself in sight, no sounds besides the ones he makes and the thunder that draws nearer and nearer. His own heart is beating obnoxiously loud in his ears and it's making keeping his anxiety in check a difficult task.

"HELLO? ANYONE HERE?" he calls at the top of his lungs and then waits.

He receives no answer. 

Stiles takes a deep fortifying breath and crosses the street towards the shopping area. Not long after, he steps onto the main street and walks it until he makes it to Mae's diner. He holds his breath and goes inside.

"Hello?" he calls once the door closes behind him. " _Hello?_ " he calls again but louder.

No answer comes and Stiles rubs his mouth nervously. He breathes in, counts, breathes out, counts. He doesn't even remember closing his eyes, but he has. He reopens them to look around. Just like the station, it looks as if the people inside just got up and left, leaving everything behind as it was. There are halfway eaten dishes and halfway finished drinks on the tables. A broom and a dustpan are in a corner, the latter full of glass and dirt. The TV is on and airing an episode of Friends that he has watched before.

Stiles approaches the counter warily. He ducks and gets inside the service area. He looks around until he locates the remote and then changes the channel to watch the news, because hopefully they'll shed some light on what's happening.

"What the-" he mutters confused.

He changes the news channel again and again but gets greeted with the same sight. The screen shows an empty desk with an equally empty ticker. He tries other channels, but they're only airing reruns.

Stiles is really confused. He takes out his phone and tries calling his dad once again. After he gets the voicemail, he calls 911 and, on a whim, the hospital. No one picks up. Stiles swallows thickly and then forces himself to get moving.

He needs to finish checking the diner, just in case there's some kind of note that's been left behind. Whatever has happened, he can't be the only one that's been left behind, right?

_Right???_

There must be someone else here other than Stiles. There must...

He suddenly feels nauseated. He breathes deeply to control it. In and out, in and out. Then, once the feeling isn't as strong anymore, he searches for a glass to have some water. His mouth tastes horrible and it's so parched that his tongue feels like sandpaper. He fills the glass and takes little sips, because it feels like he'll be sick at the very first provocation.

Then it registers. There's electricity and running water. He looks at his glass thoughtfully. That means that someone is ensuring at least the minimum of those services... right? What if he calls...? But will that even work? Because he called the hospital and 911, and no one answered. So that doesn't make any sense and...

His head is pounding and the nausea is rearing its ugly head again. Stiles leaves the glass on the counter to massage his temples until the pain ebbs away enough to think clearly again. The nausea won't go away until he calms his nerves, so he focuses on that. He's a champ, he can do this. He can.

He wets his lips and starts searching around again. He notices that no personal effects have been left behind and that there aren't any cars or bikes parked outside. He looks inside the toilets and finds them empty. He walks towards the employee only area and pushes on the door. He grunts when it doesn't give in even an inch. He frowns and looks through the peephole. His eyes widen.

It's completely destroyed, as if a wrecking ball somehow made it inside but managed to not damage the walls.

No amount of pushing will get him inside.

\---

He spends hours looking around.

He finds no living being, animal or human.

He finds five cars and one motorcycle in total, and all of them at the workshop, missing parts and not working at all.

He finds that, outwardly, every building he's checked looks normal, but they are, if not partially, completely destroyed inside.

He finds that the only places untouched are the police station and his own home.

\---

It's not about not being anxious, it's about not letting his anxiety have the upper hand.

He may have problems and struggle with things, but he's strong.

His dad is out there and Stiles will find him.

\---

He calls.

Voicemail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you hear evil laughter in the background, that's me. I invite you to come with pitchforks at me... in the comment section.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm trying to be optimist and say this will only have 7 chapters.)
> 
> (*Awkward laughter*)

Thomas is a Cheater McCheatersen but Stiles is better (or worse, depending on how you look at it). Stiles bites his lip to contain a guffaw and shows his hand gleefully. Thomas scowls viciously at his cards but doesn't show them yet. He's such a sore loser.

Stiles scratches his beard as he laughs uproariously, leaning on his chair to relieve his aching joints. Marion remains silent and with a poker face, but Stiles knows her well and he knows she's infinitely amused. She's the only one that plays cards with Stiles and Thomas, the others refuse to do it. She doesn't like playing cards, but she likes the _game_. Stiles is pretty sure Marion used to be CIA and Thomas FBI.

Stiles reaches to retrieve Marion and Thomas' cards to shuffle. His white hair falls into his eyes and he huffs to push it away. He should have it cut it already, but he never seems to get a turn at the hairdressers. He should complain about it.

Just as he's shuffling the cards, there's a loud sound coming from outside the entertainment room. Stiles looks up from the cards, puzzled. They're really silent here. The old people, the assistants, the doctors, the nurses, they value silence like Midas his gold. So, so silent that Stiles had trouble adapting because he's always been a chatterbox.

The door opens slowly but no one comes in.

"Donna?" he calls out sofly.

A man comes inside. He's wearing a SWAT uniform and Stiles blinks confused. Maybe he's not so off about Marion and Thomas after all.

"Sir? Are you ok?" the first man that entered the room asks tentatively.

"Yes? Why wouldn't I be?"

The man pauses for a second and his companions share a quick look. One of them leaves and Stiles can hear him talking into his radio.

"We need you to accompany us, sir."

"Really?" Stiles groans. His joints have been hurting something fierce today, there's nothing else that he wants to do less than move. "Can't it wait until we finish the game?"

"We, sir?"

Stiles looks at him as if he's stupid. The standards to get into special ops must have become so damn lax... He sighs long-suffering and turns to look at Marion to see if she shares his pain. She's still holding her cards, seemingly unperturbed by the intrusion. Her beady eyes meet his.

"Sir? Who is we? Are there more-"

"Is this some type of joke?" Stiles snaps. "You shouldn't be so disrespectful to your-"

Stiles trails off. Thomas' cap is falling from his stringy yellow hair. His dull black eyes are fixed on Stiles, unmoving. So are Marion's for that matter. Stiles starts to feel hot and then cold. He swallows and reaches to place the cap back in its place. Something rolls down Thomas' shirt and onto the floor. Stiles picks it up. It's a black button.

When he looks up, Thomas is missing an eye.

\---

Stiles wakes up with a start. (He doesn't even remember falling asleep.) He can't recall what he was dreaming about, but his heart is beating at impossible speeds in his chest, so maybe it's better that way. After a few seconds, his heart slows down, but the knot of nerves at the mouth of his stomach and the vaguely nauseous feeling it provokes remains.

He takes in his surroundings as he takes a fortifying breath. He's back at the station, in his father's chair. His eyes settle on the family picture for a moment before he has to close them because they burn with the necessity to cry.

(He can't. He won't. If he goes down that path, he'll go down, down and down, and never find his way up.)

It's been four days since he woke up alone in a ghost town. Four days and he has no new information. Four days and not even an inkling of what's happening. Each of those days, he's woken up, chosen a direction and then walked, checking building after building for living beings or clues. (Found none.) Each of those days, he's found his way back home or the station and dropped in exhaustion after fighting the losing battle of staying awake.

(A new routine.)

He takes another deep breath and takes out his phone. He dials each number one by one instead of using the saved contact. It rings and rings, and then, he gets the voicemail. He tries again. And again.

(Stiles doesn't like routine so much any more.)

\---

Stiles needs to steal a bike.

Is it still stealing if there's no one to steal it from? If the previous owner is gone? Disappeared from the face of Earth? Stiles thinks that his dad would say it is, but then again, he's pretty sure his dad didn't take this particular set of circumstances into account.

Whatever the case it is, steal or not, Stiles needs a bike. He hasn't been going any farther than where his legs could carry. Or, more precisely, he's hasn't gone to places he couldn't ensure to be back from before nightfall in case his dad came back. So, since his jeep won't start and he hasn't been able to find a working car, he needs a bike. And since he hasn't owned one since he was seven years old, he needs to... acquire one.

He remembers seeing one in one of his neighbor's backyard. It's a little smaller than what Stiles should ride and it's going to be awkward, but he'll take what he's given and be grateful at this point.

He walks back to his neighbourhood at a brisk pace. He's still rattled by the dream he can't remember and he tries to empty his mind as he moves. He's not entirely successful, but at least the knot of anxiety isn't threatening to choke him.

He makes it to his street. He checks his home first, just in case, but it's still as he left it. No new notes on the board, no clothes in the hamper. -He knows it's stupid. His dad wouldn't just leave clothes in the hamper and then leave, but he can't help himself.- His stomach churns and he forces himself to leave through the door and towards the Millers' house.

The short trip down the road is silent, with only the sounds of distant thunder in the background. The sky is as dark as it was yesterday (and the day before, and the day before, and the day before) but no drop of rain makes an appearance. He reaches the house in no time and he hesitates at the entrance. People or not, just barging into other people's homes makes him cringe.

He hesitates right at the edge of the backyard. There are children toys strewn across all of it and an inflatable pool full of glittery water, pink and silver stars all mixed together. Other than that, it's spotless, the plants well taken care of, the lawn trimmed and no weeds in sight. Stiles stares at it for a moment mesmerized. It makes a stark contrast with what he knows is inside.

(The first time he looked inside, he spotted a baby crib amidst the rubble. He nearly broke his hands trying to get inside and he cried when he realized no one was there, dead or alive.)

Stiles swallows and goes towards the shed. He knows that there's a bike stashed in there because once he had to give back a wrench his dad had borrowed from Mr. Miller and he saw it there. He just hopes it's still there because he doesn't want to have to check all the houses in the neighborhood.

(It's disconcerting and nerve-wracking. Going through people's things like this makes him feel unsettled. He knows he doesn't have any other choice right now, but it doesn't make it any easier.)

Thankfully, it's still there. The tires need to be inflated a bit and it's glittery pink with My Little Pony stickers, but you won't hear Stiles complain about it. He adjusts the seat and the handlebar to fit him with little difficulty. The pump is in plain sight and quite easy to use too, so he has the bike prepared to use in no time.

Stiles pauses as he leaves the shed. So far, he's checked the police and fire station and the town hall. He should check the hospital too, but just thinking about it makes his breath speed up and the nausea ratchet up a notch or five. He doesn't want to, he really doesn't, but he knows that it's the next logical step. He can delay it by going to the school first, but there's no avoiding it in the end.

He swallows thickly and his hands start to tremble. He closes his eyes, breathes and repeats his mantra mentally. It's not about not being anxious, it's about not letting his anxiety have the upper hand. He may have problems and struggle with things, but he's strong. His dad is out there and Stiles will find him.

He opens his eyes and gets on the bike. It's been a while since he last rode one and he hopes he doesn't crash.

He's halfway to the hospital when he turns and goes to his school instead.

\---

Stiles makes it to his school with the bitter taste of disappointment filling his mouth. He's stronger than this, he should have gone to the hospital first. It's stupid and he knows it. It's been a while since he's been this disappointed in himself.

He swallows thickly. Ok. There's nothing he can do about it now. He'll just check the school quickly and then go to the hospital. An hour won't make any difference after all, the hospital will still be there when he's done here. Stiles will use the time to gather his wits and that's it.

With a mental nod, he leaves the bike at the entrance. He takes a look around before entering the building, and just as he expected, there isn't any type of vehicle in the parking lot.

He turns around and pushes the front doors to get inside. No rubble greets him, but also no note or anything to shed some light on his situation pinned on the board. Expected, but still deeply disappointing.

Stiles checks class after class, office after office, but finds nothing. Desks, tables, blackboards in the classrooms, more tables, paperwork, computers in the offices. The gym is open, a lonely ball on the ground smack dab in the middle. The swimming pool, the changing rooms, the pit, all of them intact.

No room is destroyed.

Rattled, Stiles checks again.

\---

On his way to the hospital, one hour later, Stiles tries to understand, to make sense of what's happening.

So far, he's only found three buildings that haven't suffered any type of destruction at all: the police station, his own home, the school.

Then there's the library, the fire station, the supermarket, the cinema and the house that used to be Scott McCall's before he moved out of town because of his dad's job, eight years ago. Those have minor damages, only a couple of rooms destroyed, if that.

As for the rest of the town, it's in shambles, even though all the buildings look fine from the outside.

Stiles remains confused and lost.

\---

Stiles should be used to this, he thinks. The whole town is silent, the only sounds he's been hearing the last four days have been the ones he makes or the continuous thunder of the storm that never seems to reach the town. However, this is a whole new level. It's eerie and nerve-wracking and Stiles shouldn't have come to the hospital, dammit. It's not like he's...

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Ok. Ok. He can do this. The sooner he gets to it, the sooner he'll finish.

He walks through the doors with his breath held in. When he notices, he forces himself to let it out and to breathe. He counts as he approaches the reception and as he makes his way around it to look inside. Again, no signs of struggle or anything weird. Paperwork here, stationary there. Phone, a set of keys, an empty plastic glass and a halfway finished bottle of water.

He leaves the reception and checks the waiting room to the left. Nothing, it's empty. Stiles pauses. He remembers breaking his arm as a seven-year-old and having to wait here with his mom for ages. He remembers crying and crying and his mom hugging him. He remembers how mom pressed kiss after kiss into his hair as tears slid slowly down his cheeks. He remembers the chocolate sundae with little brownie pieces that mom bought him afterwards.

(Mom started deteriorating not long afterwards. Mom stopped being mom and became a _she _and a _her_ , because he couldn't reconcile what mom used to be with what she had become.)__

____

____

(Stiles misses his mom.)

He peels himself from the doorway with difficulty and walks down the hallway. He despises the white walls, white furniture, white everything. The smell of antiseptic is almost overwhelming, and his breathing sounds obnoxiously loud. It's rattling and he feels about to burst out of his own skin. It also feels as if at any moment, something will spring at him from where he least expects it. He wants to finish fast and then leave.

He checks every room that he finds. A lot of them are completely destroyed, some of them are untouched. Stiles is confused because he can't find a pattern. Why? Why is that examination room spotless but the next one is a mess of rubble and medical instruments? Why was the first waiting room perfectly fine but the next three ones destroyed?

Stiles swallows and takes the stairs to the second floor. He finds that he can't even leave the stairs. There's a huge pile of debris that blocks his way and he finds himself unable to climb over. Absurdly enough, the vending machine sitting there is intact and working perfectly well. The same thing happens with the third and fourth floors.

For a moment Stiles can't breathe.

(She's gone gone gone. She's gone. Gone. Gonegonegone.)

He breathes and counts for a bit, leaning on the vending machine for support. Ok. He swallows thickly. Ok. There's... There's at least another set of stairs that lead to each floor. He should try those too, because just because this end is blocked, it doesn't mean the other will be too.

He turns around and goes back to reception. This time, he takes the other direction and checks the rooms as he finds them. Untouched and empty. Destroyed. Can't even open the door. Intact. Full of rubble. Full of rubble. Full of rubble. Full of rubble. And intact toilet. Completely destroyed. Not working elevator. Completely destroyed.

He reaches the stairs and starts climbing them. The second floor is still blocked. He climbs the next set of stairs with his heart rate climbing up steadily with each step. By the time he makes it to the third floor he's panting. When he sees that it's not blocked, he chokes and starts coughing.

Ok, no. Nonono. Breathe, breathe, breathe. No panicking, Stiles. Breathe, dammit. He eyes the vending machine and scrambles to take out his wallet. He buys a bottle of water and dumps it over his head, the shock of the extremely cold water shaking him out of it. He buys another and drinks some of it. He breathes and counts.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

His legs feel wobbly and unstable, so he sits down for a bit where he stands. He sips the water slowly as he flexes his hands to try to stop their shaking. After a few minutes of no improvement, he frowns and scowls, disappointed with himself. It's just one more floor and he's done. He's not going to back down now. He decides to take off the bandage in one go and forces himself to get up from the floor.

There's a ringing in his ears as he walks down the hallway. As he checks each room that he finds his heartbeat gets louder and faster, and so do the shakes that rake his body. He ignores them. Just past room 308, the hallway is blocked by rubble and debris. Part of Stiles wishes that...

He swallows as he stops in front of the last room he can check. 308. Stiles feels as if he's stuck in place. There's a rush in his ears, his head is pounding at the same rhythm of his heart, and his vision is starting to waver. He can't. He can't, he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't. He just...

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

_It's not about not being anxious, it's about not letting his anxiety have the upper hand. He may have problems and struggle with things, but he's strong. His dad is out there and Stiles will find him._

He pushes the door open with trembling hands. It's intact but empty. There's a chart in front of the bed that reads Claudia Stilinski. Stiles shakes, he can't move, he can't... He turns around and runs down the hallway, down the stairs, through the lobby, out of the hospital. He falls to his knees right there on the road and vomits.

Then he shakes and shakes and shakes.

\---

Stiles doesn't trust himself to get on the bike yet, so he walks. He feels rattled to the core, as if someone has grabbed something deep, deep inside and shaken it violently until it became dislodged, out of place. His mouth tastes like acid and his head is pounding painfully. Light hurts his eyes and he can barely open them.

He stops moving and wobbles in place. He can't. He can't take a step more. He just can't. He looks to the side and sees an apartment complex. He crosses the road on shaky legs and lets the bike fall to the side. He tries to open the door and it doesn't budge. He pushes and pushes but to no avail. He rests his head against its cool surface and tries to breathe. He can't take it anymore. He curls himself into a ball on the doorstep and closes his eyes tightly.

Thunder rumbles and lighting strikes. Rain starts pouring, but Stiles doesn't move.

\---

Stiles unearths his face from its cocoon. The stone under him is cold and his body feels frozen. Full body shakes are raking it and he feels sick. Nausea has pooled at the bottom of his stomach and then it has travelled up, up and up to the back of his throat. Every beat of his heart sends a sharp prick of pain to his temples, down to his neck and shoulders, then to his chest, then to his stomach. It's like a full circle that never stops.

He can't think. He's tried to count but it's not working. He reaches two, maybe three, and then his thoughts skitter away. Everything hurts but it's somehow muted. He feels numb.

His sight goes through a second of dissociation and when it adjusts, he stops seeing the street in front of him and focuses on the rain. He notices that at some point the rain has gone from a full-on monsoon to a lighter rain. Not light or heavy, but something in between. The sound is filling the previously oppressive silence. He closes his eyes and just listens.

Not much later, the rain starts to slow down even more. The pitter patter that the sum of the individual drops produces is... Stiles breathes. Haltingly and shakily, but he breathes.

Then he breathes and counts.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

He breathes and counts again, again and again.

By the time his limbs have stopped shaking and his stomach has ceased to revolt, the rain is gone.

\---

It's dark.

Stiles concentrates on putting one foot after the other, his footsteps not so silent with the water pooled on the asphalt. Stiles welcomes the sound gratefully.

His body feels as if he's been put through one of Coach Finstock's gruelling practices and then gone back for seconds. Maybe even thirds. Everything feels weak and achy, and he's leaning heavily on the bike as he walks. He's going to be so sore tomorrow...

He sighs.

It's been a while since he went under that bad and he has mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, he's disappointed, because he thought he was over having anxiety attacks that leave him completely out for the count and it's so frustrating, dammit. On the other, he's proud because he's never been able to handle them without meds but this time he has. And ok, it's not like he had any other option, but still.

He sighs again and looks at where his hands are gripping the bike's handlebar. The poor thing is soaked completely because he left it under what it was a veritable monsoon. He hopes that he didn't damage it or Anna Miller is going to be so mad when she comes back.

When... she comes... back. Stiles pauses and swallows thickly. He takes out his phone and stares at it. Still no calls on his end. He bites his lip and dials each number one by one. It rings and rings before it goes directly to voicemail.

Stiles closes his eyes and breathes. After a moment, he reopens them and keeps walking. He'll just have to make sure to take care of the bike carefully for when she... everyone comes back.

\---

Stiles tosses and turns in his bed. He can't sleep at all. He thought he was tired (his body sure as hell feels exhausted) but he just can't sleep. He's closed his eyes, done his breathing exercises and nothing.

He groans and gets out of bed. Outside it's still completely dark save for the parts illuminated by the street lamps. He goes back to his desk and turns on his computer. The thing is as slow as ever and Stiles taps his fingers on the desk as he waits for it to finish loading.

He clicks on the explorer and tries resetting the Internet connection, but it's still not working. He sighs. Not like he expected it to work anyways. He closes the windows and turns the computer off.

What should he do now? The only place he hasn't checked is the Preserve and he doubts he can go in there without getting hopelessly lost. Should he try it anyways? Or should he try to go outside Beacon Hills? He's never left town (or if he has, he was too little to remember it), but it's just following the signs and the road. By car, it's one hour to Sacramento. Maybe he'll find some answers there?

Stiles nods to himself. Sacramento it is. He can even leave now. The roads are well lit and it's not like he's sleeping anyways.

\---

There's a wall.

There's a huge concrete wall blocking the way. Stiles has been following it for a good twenty minutes now and he's starting to suspect that it surrounds the town completely.

It doesn't make sense. Stiles knows that he never leaves home unless he's forced to, but he thinks he would have noticed if a huge more than five meter high wall was being built. Or his dad would have told him? It just doesn't make sense. Why is it here? Just, why? Why would they build...

Stiles pauses, dread filling him.

If they've evacuated the whole town, that means the wall is not meant to keep things from getting in. He turns to look around him, breath coming out in short gasps. It's a containment wall. It's for keeping things _in_. He turns towards the wall and hits it with his open palm. He wants out. He wants out. Hewantsouthewantsouthewantsout. He hits the wall again and again.

There's a sudden rustling sound behind him and Stiles turns, heart in his throat. He plasters himself against the wall, frozen in place. The rustling sound comes nearer and nearer.

Then the source comes into the light.

Stiles screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Evil cackle*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait :).
> 
> (NOT SORRY AT ALL, MAUAHAHAHA!)
> 
> (Also, um, yeah, 8 chapters in the end. Hopefully.)

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Stiles breathes out in between panicked breaths, his hands getting scratched by the concrete at his back as he presses himself against it. "Oh my god, bloodbloodsomuchblood. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod."

The wall. The fucking wall. It's definitely to keep something in, not out. Holy fucking... The sight is horrifying. Blood stains her lips, her teeth, her mouth, her face. It slides down her jaw line and drips on her throat, her clothes. Her clothes are soaked, oh so soaked that they look black even though Stiles can see soft pink peeking out in some patches. Stiles heaves, the nausea climbing up his throat. She lifts a hand, her fingers spasming as they form a claw. She opens her mouth and Stiles plasters himself against the wall, heart thundering in his chest.

"Help," she rasps out brokenly. Blood drops from her chin to the ground noiselessly. There's a ringing in Stiles' ears, he's rooted in place. "Help," she says again.

She stumbles and falls to her knees. Stiles tries to swallow his fear but just can't move. He's drawing in big gulps of air but he's suffocating. She falls to her side with a gasp and he tries to force his legs to cooperate. He falls, his knees impacting painfully against the ground. 

"Help," she says again.

He crawls towards where she's laying, trying to count and breathe through his panic. She extends her hand and he takes it between his. His eyes dart around frantically, trying locate the threat but finds none.

"What happened? Who did this to you?" he asks, trying to keep his panic and horror in check. Her hand is squeezing his painfully, it somehow grounds him.

She remains silent. She's panting in pain and trying to clutch at her head. Stiles catches her hand and looks under it. He gasps when he sees the wound that's there, bleeding sluggishly. He takes off his hoodie and presses it against it. She moans in pain and her eyelashes flutter closed.

"Nonono," he blurts panicking. Even he knows that falling unconscious is not something good when one has a head wound. "Hey, stay with me ok? Don't- Just-" he stutters alarmed. "Hey, talk to me ok? You have to keep awake, you hear me? Talk to me. I- My name's Stiles, what's yours? Oh my god, plea-"

"Ma-Marion," she answers faintly before her eyes roll into the back of her head and she goes completely limp.

\---

Stiles' legs are about to fail him. (He used to run track at school but it's been a while. Now he wishes he hadn't dropped it back then because the only thing he's kept in shape is his sarcasm.) He stops to tighten his grip and then tries to hoist her up without jostling her too much. He resolutely ignores the blood that is now soaking his back or the droplets that fell on his shoulder when he picked her up and then slid down his chest slowly but surely. He made a makeshift bandage out of his hoodie, but he doesn't think it's enough.

He's taking her to the hospital. He doesn't know how much he'll be able to help her, but he can't think of anything else. At this point, what else can he do? Leaving her there while he went to fetch a first aid kit was out of the question. And so was (still is) not doing anything to help with her wound. In other circumstances, he'd follow what his dad taught him a long time ago: put pressure on the wound and then call the emergency services to get help. But that's obviously not something he can do right now, so he'll have to use his measly first aid knowledge and pray that it helps... or at least that he doesn't mess up and make it worse. He'll clean the wound and dress it to the best of his abilities and then hope for the best.

For now, though, he has to focus on actually getting her to the hospital. So he walks and walks and walks until his legs and arms are a shaky mess and his back is starting to hurt fiercely, until he can walk no more.

He searches frantically for a surface he can lean her on while he stretches his body for a moment and works to regain his breath.

"Hey," he calls her, trying to get her to wake up. He slaps her cheek gently, not daring to be more forceful. "Hey, come on. Open your eyes, Marion, please. Come on, please."

Her eyelashes flutter open and her unfocused eyes try to search Stiles'. Stiles nearly sags in relief. It takes a Herculean effort to keep himself (and her) up.

"Where?" she slurs.

"You fainted," Stiles explains. "I'm taking you to the hospital, but I need you to try to stay awake." He doesn't know if she knows what's happening if she knows that Beacon Hills is a ghost town that's housing something that needs a huge impenetrable wall to keep it inside. "Do you understand? You need to stay awake."

"I- I... Yes. Yes," she mumbles, closing her eyes in pain.

"No, no, no. Hey, stay with me, open your eyes."

"It hurts," she moans.

"I- Where are you from, Marion? Here? Or are you visiting? Haven't seen you before?"

She swallows thickly and opens her mouth several times before closing it again, as if words are out of her scope of possibility right now. She presses her eyes tightly and groans.

"Moved... moved here a... month ago? With my husband and kids."

"How many kids do you have?" Stiles asks when she seems to have fallen silent.

"Two. I... Two girls. Elisa and... Elisa and..." She trails off and scrunches her face. Stiles bites his lip and hesitates, but she continues talking. "Elisa and... God, why can't I...? Why can't... I...?"

"Isabel, Amelia, Anna?" Stiles blurts out, hoping to stop her from panicking. "Martha, Sophia, Eve?"

"Emma!" she exclaims, clearly relieved.

"So Elisa and Emma."

"Yeah," she nods tiredly. "They're twins. Identical twins. It... It drives Mathew crazy. He once painted numbers... He painted numbers on their foreheads to... to tell them apart."

"Oh, wow," Stiles blinks. "That's... Wouldn't it be easier to dress them in different clothes?"

"They don't... don't want to. They don't want to, they pitch a fit."

She's slurring her words to the point that it's difficult to understand what she's saying and she keeps losing her train of thought. The makeshift bandage he made with his t-shirt is soaked. This is bad, Stiles despairs internally. The knot in his stomach is the size of a galaxy by now but he can't let it show. He can't agitate her showing her his anxiety in all its glory, that will only make things worse.

But she's talking and, more importantly, she's coherent. That's good, right? He knows any type of scalp wound bleeds a lot. Maybe she's like this because she has a concussion and because she's lost a lot of blood. Maybe she'll be ok, maybe she'll...

He has to get to the hospital.

He keeps engaging her in a conversation about her family as he coaxes her into climbing onto his back. Giving her a piggyback ride is much easier now that she's not a dead weight that he has to hoist up and then carry. Still, his muscles are almost at the point of exhaustion. He's been carrying at least 110 pounds (she's on the small side, but, unlike Stiles, she looks and feels really fit, so maybe it's more?) for more than twenty minutes now. Stiles weighs 147 pounds, and maybe, just maybe, a third of those are untrained muscle. (Stiles has more sarcasm and anxiety in his body than actual muscle.) He's still about fifteen to twenty minutes away from the hospital. He hopes he makes it there.

And so, he walks and talks, and walks and talks, and walks and talks. His muscles burn and burn with the effort and his heart rate goes higher and higher, his breathing horribly harsh and labored.

One foot after the other, Stiles, he tells himself firmly.

"And then?" he rasps out between gulp and gulp of air.

"He said-"

"Holy mother of- Hey!"

"Fuck!" Stiles exclaims startled, jumping back at the unexpected new voice. His heart jumps and his vision darkens for a second. His legs give out on him and he tries to soften the landing. "Fuck!"

"Oh, fuck!" the new voice curses before footsteps run towards them. "Are you ok, man? What happened to you?!"

Stiles draws in sharp intakes of air. He tries to control it, very aware that he's about to trip into the hated hyperventilation territory. He turns towards Marion, who's groaning in pain at the unexpected landing, though it looks more from the sudden and too fast move, than from having hit herself anywhere.

The owner of the new voice reaches them. He's the kind of blonde that comes from bleaching ones hair too much (that yellow color that reminds Stiles of a cartoon), tanned and bulky. Young, maybe twenty. At the most. He helps Marion up, letting her lean on the wall to their left. He's talking to her and she's responding, but Stiles can't make out the words.

His chest is starting to hurt and his limbs are tingling. He lets himself fall until he's laying on the ground. He needs a bag, he needs it now. Fuck, fuck, fuck. A bag, now. Now, now, now.

"Hey!" the man exclaims. "Hey, what's wrong? Oh, fuck, what's wro-"

"A bag," Stiles rasps out.

"Wha- What?!"

"Gimme a bag!"

The man scrambles to get up and Stiles loses sight of him for a moment. He hears something being unceremoniously dumped to the ground and then he's back, pressing a plastic bag into Stiles' hands. Stiles grabs it with trembling hands and then just focused on breathing. In and out, in and out, until his surroundings stop spinning, his head stops pounding, his limbs stop tingling. Then he breathes and counts.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Ok. Ok. That's much better. He eyes Marion. He doesn't think he can get his legs to work enough to get himself up, but it's not like he has a choice. He eyes the new man. He helped Marion and he helped Stiles, so he can't be what the wall is keeping contained, right? And that's all he needs to know right now.

"We need to get her to the hospital," he rasps out.

"Ah, yes, yes, you're right. Did you...? Is there anyone...?" Stiles shakes his head. "Ah, fuck."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees tiredly. He grunts as he pushed himself up on his shaky legs. "She's Marion and I'm Stiles, by the way."

"I'm Thomas."

\---

With Thomas carrying Marion almost effortlessly, they make their way to the hospital with no problem. Thomas walks faster than Stiles, so he's struggling to keep up. But since Thomas keeps Marion talking, Stiles can focus simply on walking. He's never been this exhausted. It feels like every step is one too many and he just wants to find a corner and _sleep_. His mind feels muddled and tortuously slow but he keeps going. Right now, their priority is patching up Marion as much as they can with their limited knowledge and resources.

Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Again. Again. Again. Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Stiles nearly sobs in relief when they finally make it to the hospital's street. Just a few more steps and they'll be there. Stiles hates the place, but he's never been more glad to see it. It's ironic and he has to focus on that if he doesn't want to really start crying because _he hates the place with every fiber of his being._

The make their way through the deserted street. Stiles trips and catches himself before slamming against the ground. He breathes deeply a few times and helps himself up using a trash can.

"You ok, man?" Thomas asks.

"Yeah, keep going," he answers, voice shaky but determined.

Just a little bit more.

Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Again. Again. Again. Again and then they're there.

Stiles really wants to cry but he doesn't. Instead, he goes ahead to keep the door open for Thomas to go in. He directs him the one of the examination rooms that he knows is still intact. While Thomas helps Marion onto the table, Stiles washes his face with cold water before washing his hands too. It helps to clear his mind a bit.

Stiles looks at the dazed Marion from the sink before trading an anxious glance with Thomas. When it looks like Thomas won't take the reins, Stiles steels himself.

Ok, so he has to clean the wound, and for that he has to take off the makeshift bandage he applied. Now, he knows enough first aid to know that the t-shirt may be stuck to the wound by now. Maybe it isn't, of course, but he can't risk it. If the wound has stopped bleeding and he pulls on the cloth, he may reopen the wound. However, he can't leave it dirty as it is, or he'll risk it getting infected.

Stiles bites his lip nervously. Fuck, this is so... so, so, so over his head. He takes a fortifying breath and searches for gauzes and, after some hesitancy, surgical gloves because he figures that copying what he's seen doctors do is for the best in this kind of situation. Once he has them on, he approaches Marion, trying to stop his hands from shaking.

He probes around the top of her head before starting to undo the makeshift bandage. It's slightly stuck to the wound so he pauses, trying to decide what to do. If he rips it off, he'll take the layer that's stopping the wound from bleeding. Maybe he should soften it a little with water? Or should he use rubbing alcohol? That would disinfect it at the same time, right?

Fuck. Ok, fuck. Yeah, rubbing alcohol. He turns and searches the drawers until he finds something that he recognizes as rubbing alcohol. He goes back to Marion. She's starting to nod off and he glares at Thomas, who shakes himself and starts talking to her once again. Stiles wets a gauze with the alcohol before pressing it gently to the wound. Marion startles and lets out a surprised shout.

"Sorry, sorry!" Stiles apologizes, drawing his hand back, equally surprised.

"What are you doing?!"

All three of them yelp surprised and turn towards the door, where a woman in scrubs is standing with a horrified expression on her face. Then Marion let's out a choking sound and starts vomiting, making Stiles and Thomas jump back.

"Good god!" the new woman exclaims as she rushes forward. She grabs the clean trash can on her way and pushes it under Marion's mouth. "There, there, let it out," she says kindly before turning towards Thomas and Stiles. "You," she says to Thomas. "Go to the closet down the hall and bring a mop to clean this up. And you," she addresses Stiles. "Is that yours?" she asks nodding towards the blood that coats Stiles clothes and Stiles shakes his head. "Then grab a glass of water and sit down before you collapse. Drink in small sips." She turns back to face Marion. "Now let's look at that."

Stiles sits down on a chair, glass of water in hand. He sags in relief, because it's evident that this woman knows what she's doing. She asks Marion about allergies and other things she apparently needs to do her job. Then she takes off Stiles' makeshift bandage carefully and starts inspecting it. She keeps talking to Marion and the words of their conversation are starting to get blurred. Stiles blinks and rubs his face.

He loses some minutes there. He's pretty sure that he didn't fall asleep, but Marion's head is bandaged properly and she's settled down on the gurney, so maybe he did.

"How is she?" he rasps out, blinking his eyes to clear them because his sight is murky.

"If you're not family..." she starts.

"Does that really matter right now?" Stiles points out tiredly, making a vague motion towards the window and outside.

"I suppose not," she sighs. "She has a concussion and that was quite a hit that she took to her head. However, the tests I performed came out clean, so she'll recover."

"There was so much..."

Suddenly it's all too much. Stiles heaves and the woman acts fast. The next thing he knows, Stiles is vomiting into a clean bag.

"Let's give you a check too, shall we?" she says patting his back comfortingly.

"No, no." He waves at her with a sigh. "I'm ok. I'm just tired, sorry."

"I'd bet," she nods. "But let's do a check-up just in case, alright? It's probably just your body reacting to over-exerting yourself, but it won't hurt to check."

"I..." He swallows and then accepts the plastic cup full of water that she hands him gratefully. He takes a mouthful, swirls it around his mouth and then spits it out. "Ok," he finally acquiesces resignedly when he recognizes that stubborn look that Mrs. McCall used to sport back then, that means she won't back down.

"Good," she nods. "Now, first things first. What's your name? Thomas said something about a style?"

"Stiles," he corrects her and rubs his face, feeling completely worn out.

"Alright, Stiles," she continues, seemingly unfazed by the strange name. "I'm Donna. Do you have any allergies that you know of?"

\---

They stay in silence after Donna has finished her check-up. Thomas is in one of the chairs in front of Stiles and Donna is sitting next to Marion. Marion is asleep on the gurney and they have to wake her... in about ten minutes, according to the clock on the wall.

Stiles keeps nodding off and waking up with a start. Being in the hospital gives him the chills and he can't... He can't stop thinking about that room three floors up with his... her name there. He hates it. He also hates that it's the first night since this whole thing started that he hasn't slept where his dad could easily find him.

He fidgets in his seat for a moment, itching to take out his phone and call his dad.

"So," Thomas starts awkwardly before hastily lowering his voice at Donna's glare. "Anyone know what the hell is happening?" Both Donna and Stiles shake their heads. "Well, fuck," he groans sprawling in his seat.

"I came to work like normal... And then I noticed that the parking lot was empty," Donna explains. "I checked the whole hospital but..."

"There's no one," Thomas finishes. "The same happened to me. I work at the gym near the town hall, you know which one I...? Well, whatever. I prepared everything like always but no one came. Not even the usual morning crowd? Like, they're all office workers, so I thought maybe they had some kind of event or..." He sighs. "In hindsight, that was a stupid thought. But I thought it was just a slow day at first. But then Lorna didn't show up to her shift..." He makes a vague gesture with his hand and goes silent.

Both of them turn to look at Stiles expectantly and he sighs. "I woke up and went to have lunch with my dad. No one was there," he explains succinctly, pursing his lips. They're still looking at him so he sighs again and but he doesn't elaborate.

"So now what?" Thomas says after a minute of awkward silence. "People can't have vanished just like that! Obviously there's no one here, but what about in other towns?"

"I don't think that wall can be climbed..."

"Wall?"

"What? What wall?!"

"You didn't see...?" Stiles swallows before continuing. "I thought the same as you and tried to go to Sacramento. I found a wall blocking the way."

"What?!"

"Calm down, Thomas," Donna says firmly before turning towards Stiles. "And it goes around the whole town?"

"The fuck??? That can't- A wall can't appear out of nowhere!"

"Thomas, get a grip," Donna says authoritatively and Thomas' mouth snaps shut. He glowers at her but she ignores it. "It goes around the whole town?"

"I don't know," Stiles admits chagrined. "I followed it for twenty minutes after I found it and... Well, then Marion was there."

"She was there? She wasn't with you before?" Donna asks confused and Stiles shakes his head. "So what happened to her?"

"I don't know," Stiles admits again.

"Do you know anything at all?" Thomas snorts snidely and Stiles bristles.

"More than you at any rate!" he snaps back angrily. "I'm not the one that needed hours and hours and a missing co-worker to notice something was wrong!"

"Enough!" Donna snaps before it can escalate further. "I know the tension is high and that we're shaken by what's happening, but fighting like this won't help, alright? We all need to calm down. And Thomas, stop picking fights. Why would Stiles know any more than you do?"

Thomas deflates in his chair and rakes a hand through his hair. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that. I'm just, you know."

"She appeared out of nowhere," Stiles continues after a moment of silence, deflating too. He rubs his eyes and drinks some water to clear his throat. God, he's so tired. He just wants to go home, go to sleep and wake up tomorrow to see this was only a nightmare. "She was already hurt so I don't know what caused her wounds. And she lost consciousness before I could ask her what had happened to her. When she woke up again, I was worried about keeping her awake, so I thought it was better to ask her about things that wouldn't stress her out. And, even more importantly, I was more focused about getting her here than anything else."

"You did well," Donna nods before checking the clock and rising to wake up Marion. When she has fallen asleep once again, Donna returns to her seat. "We need to check the police station. Maybe there's some kind of clue there."

"I already did," Stiles says. "There's nothing there. I checked the town hall and the fire station too. I called 911 and tried the TV. There's nothing."

"Are you sure, man? Maybe you missed something? We should check again. It just doesn't-"

"I checked everything," Stiles cuts in, irritated.

"You could have missed-"

"If you want to look again, sure, whatever. But my dad's the sheriff and I practically grew up in that station. I know what to look for and there wasn't anything there."

"Good god," Donna breathes out, rubbing her temple tiredly.

"Fuck," Thomas groans dismayed.

"Yeah, fuck," Stiles sighs, deflating.

"So now what?"

"The wall," Stiles says after a moment of hesitation.

"Yes," Donna sighs. "We should check if it really goes all around the town. Or at least if there's some kind of exit."

"No. I mean, yeah, we should, but..." Stiles hesitates again before continuing. "Haven't you thought about it?"

"About what?"

"You mean about what is it for, right?" Donna muses thoughtfully.

"Yeah. I mean," he pauses and swallows. He drinks the last of the water in his cup and then fiddles with it nervously. "If people have left town... then that means the wall isn't to keep something out."

A second, two, and then all three of them turn slowly to look at the sleeping Marion.

"It's to keep something in," Donna breathes, eyes intently on Marion, clearly trying to guess what would cause a wound like that.

"Fuck," Thomas curses darkly, turning to look at the door with a trepidatious expression.

"Yeah, fuck," Stiles nods, following his gaze.

After a second, Thomas scrambles up and then spends the next ten minutes blocking the door so no one... or nothing can get in. Stiles can tell that both Donna and Thomas breathe easier once he's done.

Stiles, on the other hand, feels trapped.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Again.

And again.

And again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not sorry >:).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one. Um, chapter count still at 8... tentatively ^^U

There's something about soaring high, high, high, that makes Stiles' anxiety issues seem smaller. It may have something to do with how single-mindedly he throws himself into the task of pushing himself higher and higher, he knows, but he really doesn't care about the mechanics. He cares that his mind empties of every thought as he goes up and down, gaining momentum the more impulse he adds to the action. Sometimes when the split second of anti-gravity that he experiences when he's at the highest point isn't enough, he jumps. And nothing matters in those few seconds of weightlessness.

Today is one of those days. Things keep happening and he can't control them. It's frustrating and disheartening. But this he _can_ control. He can control how high and how fast he goes, he can stop the swing if he wants. He can jump.

He soars through the air and, for few seconds, it's like heaven. He hasn't a care in the world, nothing matters. Then the ground is there and he rolls to avoid getting hurt. Because he chooses to. It's his choice, because he controls what he does here. Just like he chooses to lay on the ground for a moment while his heart rate slows down. Just like he can choose if wants to do this again, again and again.

"You can't do that," a girl says.

Stiles blinks, surprised, and rises to look at the newcomer. She's wearing a pretty pink and white dress with matching mary-janes. There's dirt all over them. Her dark hair is in two very high pigtails with ties that have sparkly hearts attached to them, and it's matted and dirty. Her knees and hands are skinned almost raw.

"You can't do that," the girl repeats, frowning. There's a wild quality to her eyes that gives Stiles chills.

Stiles shudders. He wants to ask what happened to her, if she's alone like Stiles was before. "Why?" he finds himself asking instead.

"Mom says it's dangerous," she states as if her mom's word is law for everyone, not just her. "You can't do that or you'll be punished."

Stiles rises from the ground carefully. "But I'm a grown up, I can do it."

"You can't. Mom said no," she snaps irritatedly. She hasn't moved from her spot since she arrived. Her dress billows gently with the wind. "You can't."

"I'm big, I can do whatever I want."

"You're a liar. You'll get punished for that too."

"Look, I-"

"Uncle!" she calls to her right. "Stiles is lying again!"

"Wha- How do you know my name?!" Stiles splutters frightened.

"UNCLE!" she calls again, but louder.

Stiles takes a step back and then another. He bumps into something and his heart jumps into his throat. He turns around slowly and then he screams, terrified. He tries to run away but the beast catches him around his waist. He screams, screams and screams.

"Stop shouting, Stiles," the girl sighs, annoyed, moving near to grab the beast's free hand. "If you don't want to get punished, you shouldn't have broken the rules." Then she ignores Stiles altogether to talk to the beast. "Uncle Peter, may I have some ice cream? I stayed on the slide."

"Not before lunch, or your mom will kill me, Ally," the beast growls and she pouts.

Then Peter proceeds to set him in the kiddie swing, the one Stiles shouldn't be able to fit into. He wiggles confused and the beast, no, the man, smiles amused and pats his head fondly. Peter starts pushing at the swing gently as Ally hops onto the one beside them.

Stiles looks down at his Batman onesie and then he starts crying. 

\---

"Hey!"

Stiles wakes with a sharp intake of air. His wild eyes sweep the room, darting from Thomas, who's still gripping his shoulder, to the concerned looking Donna and the still unconscious Marion. He's shaking and he doesn't know why. Whatever dream he was having must have been really bad because he feels rattled to the core.

"You ok, man?" Thomas asks, letting go of his shoulder and getting him a glass of water at Donna's urging.

"Yeah," he waves him off, trying to stop breathing harshly. His heart is still thundering in his chest and he's jittery with nerves. He takes a sip of the water to focus his attention on something else, and then another. "Just peachy."

"You kept calling a Peter," Thomas tells him as he goes back to his seat.

"Peter?" Stiles frowns. He was talking in his sleep? That means he was definitely dreaming then. But he doesn't know any Peter... Well, except for Peter Parker, but he doubts he was dreaming about Spiderman in this situation. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, man."

Stiles takes a deep breath, holds it in for a few seconds, and then lets it out slowly. Well, whatever, it's just a dream. He has more important things to care about right now.

"How's Marion?" he asks Donna.

"She's disoriented but that's normal under these circumstances. But I'm no neurologist, so I can't be one hundred percent sure. I'll do another test today to check if there's still no swelling, but other than that, there's nothing else that can be done but wait and let her rest."

"So what do we do?" Thomas asks, taking the words out of Stiles' mouth. "We have to remain as a group, but if she's out, that leaves us in odd numbers."

"I wouldn't advise moving her," Donna says frowning. "And I'm the only one with enough medical knowledge to notice if something goes wrong, so I have to remain where she is."

Silence reigns for a moment. They can't leave Marion alone and go as a group of three. They can't leave Donna alone with Marion either. And making either Thomas or Stiles go check the wall alone with an unknown threat out there that may or may not have hurt Marion is a no-go too. But they can't remain idle either, because they don't know if there's some kind of time limit set. Unless...

"Is there any room here that can be locked and opened from the inside?" He'd suggest the police station, but Donna said they shouldn't move Marion. If they had cars this would be different, but they don't, so it's a moot point. "Or at least some place that can be barricaded well?"

Donna mulls over it for a few minutes before answering. "The psych ward on the fifth floor. It's designed to contain dangerous patients so it can be locked and unlocked from the reception there. I can add some desks to add more security too." She nods decided. "That should work. If she's moved on a gurney there won't be any problem."

"Fifth floor?" Stiles mutters, frowning.

"And I would have to brave the outside, of course. So much for equality," Thomas scowls.

Stiles looks at him, incredulous. "Well, unless you can cram..." he trails off looking at Donna expectantly.

"Twenty years," she provides helpfully.

"... twenty years of medical knowledge in the next five to ten minutes, it's the most logical way to divide the tasks here."

"Hah!" he sneers, looking at Stiles from head to toe and obviously finding him lacking. "Like you'll do anything if something happens."

"Fuck you, dude," Stiles spits out incensed. He's so damn tired his hands are shaking. He won't take this shit. Even at his worst he's never let Jackson walk over him, he sure as hell is not letting this asshole do it either. "Yeah, I'm scrawny and you're jacked, so what? If you want to focus on that, what does it say about you that I'm not bitching about going outside and you are, huh?"

"The fuck did you say? Bitching?!"

"Alright, that's enough!" Donna snaps.

"Yeah, it is!" Stiles shouts. "He wants to stay here hiding? Ok, let him do that. See if I care. He'll only get us killed anyways. I'll go check the wall alone. You be careful Donna, ok?"

"Now see here, you little shit!"

Stiles tunes him out as he starts dismantling the barricade. As far as barricades go, it's a poor one, but it's not like they had more to work with yesterday. It takes him five minutes to free the door and Thomas still hasn't shut up.

"You keep spewing words there," he snaps at Thomas, "but you're still making no move to come out. Huh, interesting." Thomas' mouth shuts with a click and Stiles sneers. "Donna, if something happens, if you have to move..."

"Stiles, I don't think you going alone... We can wait until Marion can move to..."

"No, we can't."

She sighs. "I'll call you if something happens."

"And I'll do the same."

And then he leaves through the door without looking back.

\---

The last time Stiles was this angry was after his dad had that scare. He tried to sneak in a burger and then played it off when caught. It made Stiles lose it. In one split second, the terror he felt back then came back like a horrifying echo. He screamed and screamed, letting out the type of furious words that one never even remembers afterwards.

His dad apologized and stayed on the straight and narrow for nearly a year. Then he started with chicken fast food and escalated from there. Stiles stopped speaking to him for a little over a week, too angry for words again. His dad continued eating what he wanted, he was just sneakier about it. It made Stiles so mad that his dad joked about it with the other deputies... But being mad wasn't helping whatsoever, so Stiles called defeat and began packing him homemade lunches.

Just like then, being angry now will gain him nothing. Being angry will distract him. Being angry will make him overlook things. Being angry may very well kill him. And no, that's not happening. Stiles doesn't want to die because he was stupid and let himself be too angry to pay attention. He's not getting himself killed by whatever is prowling around Beacon Hills. Thomas is obviously a useless idiot and a jackass and that's all there is to it.

So he breathes in, counting to five, and then out, counting again. He breathes until his hands stop shaking and until he stops clenching his jaw reflexively.

He leaves the hospital.

\---

It's so creepy. So, so damn creepy.

The hair on his arms is standing on end and he keeps shivering. His eyes dart around continuously and it's nerve-wracking. The sky is still dark but there's no wind, so there's no sounds but the ones that Stiles produces. It's oppressive and now that he's actively trying to avoid making any noise, his steps echo, his breathing is too harsh, and the rustle of his clothes is too loud.

The further he gets from the hospital, the more nervous he feels, which is ironic, because he hates the place with every fiber of his being. But being in the open like this makes him feel vulnerable and he hates it too. It itches like a bad rash and it makes him feel ansty, irritable and twitchy.

(He misses his routine so, so bad.)

Stiles abhors feeling weak. His therapist used to say that he wasn't, that Stiles challenged his own limits again and again. That even if he was having a bad day, he always strived to get better, little thing by little thing. That made him feel strong, as if he was a warrior like the ones in his games. Sometimes they weren't strong enough either and he did some grinding until they got stronger, and then he was able to succeed in the quest. For Stiles, at first his feat was getting out of bed, then it was doing his homework, and so on and so on. Sometimes it was just something little like doing his breathing exercises when he felt like he couldn't, sometimes it was searching for a good recipe when he didn't even want to eat. Big or small, Stiles always tried and gave it his best... whatever that was at that precise moment. And he felt strong for it. Messed up and with a lot of holes in his armor, but still strong.

And then Stiles woke in a ghost town and now it feels as if he's back to square one. Anxious, twitchy, tipping into the out of control territory continuously and forced to do damage control again and again. Granted, these are exceptional circumstances... but _still_. It's not always about the grand gesture with Stiles. Small things count too. Small things are important.

He can't help being anxious, he knows. Hell, he obviously can't know how Marion is handling things, but Donna and Thomas... Well, maybe he shouldn't include Thomas. Thomas is obviously being overcome by the situation and he's not handling it well. (On top of being a natural jackass, of course.) But Donna is the perfect example. She's level-headed and obviously used to circumstances with high tension levels, but she's anxious too. And if someone like Donna is anxious, how could Stiles not be?

It's a circle. If he gets anxious about being anxious, he gets more anxious, and then he gets more anxious about being more anxious, which gets him even more anxious about being more anxious... And so on, and so on, and so on.

He looks to the left to check an alley and misses a trash can. He slams into it and the sound it makes reverberates through the street. His throat constricts and he becomes paralyzed. His eyes look around wildly for a moment before he can finally force his legs to move. He dives into the alley and in between two huge garbage containers.

He waits with bated breath, his whole body shaking from nerves. He strains his ears, trying to listen if someone has shown up, but his heart is beating so loudly in them that he can't hear a thing.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He hadn't even checked the alley thoroughly before he dived in. What if...? What if...? Ok, ok, Stiles, let's be rational, he thinks. Unless whatever is prowling Beacon Hills likes to play with its food, if it was already in the alley, it would have attacked in the past few minutes that he's been hiding like a terrified mouse. Breathe in, breathe out.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

The roaring in his ears quiets and he can hear again. He rubs his hands and stands up to peek out. His heart is in his throat, but he's a warrior. Being strong or brave doesn't mean not being anxious or frightened. He takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. He steps out from in between the containers and starts putting one foot after the other. His hands start shaking and he tightens them into fists.

He can do this. It's not about not being anxious, it's about not letting his anxiety have the upper hand. He may have problems and struggle with things, but he's strong. His dad is out there and Stiles will find him.

He peeks out of the alley and finds nothing.

"Holy fuck," he mutters leaning on the wall because his legs feel like jelly. " _Holy fuck._ "

He eyes his shaky hands and then looks around again. He needs some kind of weapon. He wishes he had found at least a taser at the station, he'd certainly feel better about going alone. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. There's a sports shop down the street. He doesn't have a gun or a taser, so he'll have to make do with a baseball bat.

\---

Baseball bat in hand and a new bike, he reaches the wall. Yesterday he started about ten minutes down from his current location. If he chooses to go in the same direction, eventually he'll reach the part he's already checked... and where he found Marion.

Stiles hesitates.

He should avoid that part until they can go as a group... But at the same time, going by bike will make the process of checking the wall shorter if he goes really fast, so, unless something happens, he'll eventually reach that part today. And he'd rather look at it when there's still light, that's for sure.

Mind made up, he gets on the bike and starts riding. He can't help but wince at the sound the tires make as they roll and roll. He keeps trying to look both at the wall and at his surroundings, but at this speed, he knows he's missing things. It's a sacrifice he needs to make, but he's not happy about it.

He makes it to where he started yesterday and he keeps on. Wall, wall and wall for the next fifteen minutes. No entrance, just like yesterday. He sees the bike he had to abandon ahead and he can't help but tense. He slows down as he reaches it, his heart constricting in his chest.

He stops and looks around nervously. The pink bike is slumped against the wall and the blood has gone rusty red, but it's still there painting the concrete in a deformed circle. There's a trail of droplets and stained steps that end at the spot where she collapsed, coming from who knows where.

Stiles bites his lip and takes in a shaky breath. He leans the bike against the wall and starts following the trail. He tightens his grip on the bat and readies himself to slam it against anything that comes near. It doesn't take him long to find the source. There are two cars crashed, front to front, on a street nearby. Stiles can tell which is Marion's because of the blood on the wheel. The other car is empty, no traces of blood in it... or of the person that was driving it.

Stiles looks around and debates calling out to see if someone comes. He checks the car carefully and looks around, but there's no sign of anyone being there. He thinks about leaving a note to where they are holing up, but decides against it too. Beacon Hills is small, they'll end up crossing paths eventually and he can't afford to call attention to himself.

He leaves the crash site and carefully goes back to his bike. He mounts it and starts riding again. He mulls over what he's found as he keeps an eye out. Wall, to the left, other buildings and streets to the right. No exit so far.

Now it's obvious that Marion got hurt in the crash, not attacked like they feared. In hindsight, it makes sense with the type of wound that she has, but given the circumstances, it's normal that they were wary. Donna probably suspected it, Stiles is sure, but didn't want to leave anything out, just in case. But what does that mean? Does it mean that the walls are for something else? That there's no monster out there? Or that they've simply not crossed paths with what they're keeping in? What if it's a sickness or some kind of virus? Stiles scoffs. That's ridiculous. His dad said he'd bring Stiles back. He wouldn't have said that if it was a virus. Hell, he would have told Stiles, right?

Unless they are working on an antidote and he didn't want to make Stiles panic...

Ok, no, that's stupid. Why would he have left Stiles behind then? He wouldn't. No matter what, his dad wouldn't leave him behind. He's sure of that. He is.

Besides, what's the deal with the destroyed buildings? What was it for? It just doesn't make sense! But then again, nothing makes sense. Everyone except for four people (that they know of) just up and left in the night. Stiles had taken a pill that night to help him sleep, but what about the rest? Why didn't they notice anything?

He keeps riding, tense and nervous. Wall, wall, more wall, and more wall. Still no exit. Fire station, bowling alley, cinema to the right. Wall, wall and more wall to the left. No exit, no exit, no exit.

And this wall? What the hell?! Stiles doesn't know much about building things, but he's smart enough to know that a project this big cannot be done in just one night. But then again, what if it wasn't? What if Stiles just didn't notice? He's spent his summer so far hiding at home or at the station, not wanting to be outside at all. What if he missed it? And Donna is a nurse. Nurses work long hours. Stiles remembers Mrs. McCall's rule about not making any noise whenever she finished a string of night shifts... And Thomas, well, it's Thomas. He noticed something was wrong four hours into his shift, and only because his co-worker didn't show up.

He rides and rides. Wall, wall and more wall. No exit. He checks his watch and blinks, surprised. He's been going at this for three hours already and nothing. He's halfway done too. He sighs and then pushes himself more. His body is going to kill him when he's done, but he needs to get it out of the way. They can't decide what to do without having all the facts straight.

He rides some more.

\---

Two hours later he runs into a problem: the preserve. The wall goes around it. He obviously needs to keep going, but there's no way he can do it on the bike. Which means it will take him hours and hours to accomplish that, and there's no way he can do it when it's dark. Because dark it will get right in the middle of it, he's sure.

Stiles curses mentally. He'll go around the preserve and finish checking the wall until his starting point. Tomorrow he'll brave the preserve. At this point, he's sure that he won't find an exit there, but leaving it unchecked is out of the question. He sighs dejected and gets going.

(Part of him sighs, relieved, because there's something about the preserve that's giving him the chills.)

\--

Stiles makes it to his starting point with little fanfare. His sharp anxiety from the beginning has dulled after so many hours of nothing happening. He's still alert, but by now he has become desensitized.

He starts to make his way back to the hospital. Donna said they'd be on the fifth floor and she hasn't called to say otherwise. If Stiles wasn't thrilled to sleep in an examination room, he's even less happy about going to the psych ward. He wishes he could go home. It doesn't matter that it's empty, because it's his. He'd even prefer his dad's very uncomfortable office chair... But that's obviously not something he can do. They have to stay together.

Stiles frowns. Now that he thinks of the station, he hasn't checked it or a TV since yesterday. He hasn't called his dad either. He takes out his phone and bites his lip. He checks the call log and it's been over twenty-four hours since he called last.

He looks around hesitantly and spots a coffee shop nearby. He checked it on his third day. It was full of rubble but you could step inside if he recalls well. But he's checked at least ten coffee shops since this whole thing started so he can't be sure. In any case, it will be better than speaking outside if the call does connect.

He leaves the bike at the front and goes inside. It's not full of rubble, so this isn't the one that he remembered, obviously, but hey, lucky. He gets to sit on an actual chair rather than on rocks, so he's glad to be wrong.

He eyes his phone and takes a deep fortifying breath. He dials each number one by one and then waits. It rings and rings and then goes straight to voicemail. He tries again. Again. And again. Voicemail, voicemail, voicemail.

Stiles rubs his eyes tiredly and breathes.

"Fuck," he curses.

"Swear-jar," a voice says.

"FUCK!" Stiles screams, scrambling up and turning around, his heart in his throat.

"Swear-jar," she says again.

There's a little girl by the counter. She's wearing a pretty jean dress with a pink shirt under it and matching mary-janes. There's dirt all over them and her face. Her dark hair is in two braids with ties that have sparkly stars attached to them. Her knees and hands are skinned.

"Mommy said to not move when I'm lost so she can find me, but I don't think she can find me here." Her lip starts wobbling. "I want mommy."

Well, fuck, Stiles thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're cursing me and muttering to yourself "how dare she?!", like in previous chapters, the answer is: *evil cackle*.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh... Chapter count goes up again. Chapter 9 will be the epilogue if everything goes well... ^^;

"Oh, fuck," Stiles lets out again.

"Swear-jar," she repeats wetly.

"Yes, yes, sorry," he apologizes, still shaken.

But fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck on a flying fucking fuck. Just how long has this kid been here, alone? And where's the mother?! Just, fuck. Stiles isn't any good with children, he should call Donna. Donna looks like the kind of person that can deal with the apocalypse calmly, he's sure she can manage a little girl that's been alone for who knows how long, waiting for her mother in the deserted coffee shop of a ghost town.

"Ok... ok." He swallows thickly. But Donna isn't here, so this is just another thing he has to deal with today. He can do this. "When did you see mommy last? Wait, first, what's your name?"

Great start Stiles, really. Get it together, dammit.

"Mommy said I can't talk to strangers," she says. "I can talk to policemen but you aren't one."

How in the seven levels of hell is Stiles supposed to answer that? Ok? Good observational skills? A lengthy explanation about how the uniform doesn't always imply that the one wearing it is really a policeman? Or another even longer explanation about how the lack of uniform doesn't always mean that the person isn't one either? Yeah, no. He hopes that this kid's mom didn't teach her what Stiles' taught him: to kick. Hard. And then run screaming for help.

Not that it would help in their current situation.

Ok, focus Stiles. When was the last time he took his Adderall? No, no, no. Focus, Stiles. Back to the kid.

"Ah... I'm the son of one, if that counts?" he replies awkwardly because it's worth a shot. He can't just snatch her and he can't leave her here either. She frowns distrustfully and squints her eyes at Stiles. "Do you know who the sheriff is?"

She nods. "He came to class to talk about stranger danger."

Oh, the irony. Her lips wobble again and Stiles hastens to speak before she starts crying on him. "He's my dad. Look, I have pictures if you want?"

He takes out his phone and he loads one of them. Then he leaves it on the floor, pushes it towards her, and backs off with his hands up. He puts a table between them and then sits. The girl looks wary but she takes it. Then she spends the next seconds dissecting Stiles with her eyes and Stiles fights to keep himself from fidgeting.

She comes near very slowly, her little shoes clicking softly against the tiled floor. Every few steps she pauses, as if gauging if she has to run away or not. Which is a little weird, because kids that young aren't that cautious and Stiles has just proven himself to be the next best thing to a policeman. Even if it's only by association.

She stops right in front of him but doesn't give the phone back. She clutches it tightly in her little hands as she bites her lip anxiously.

"Can I call mom and dad, please?" she asks with pleading eyes as she extends the hand with the phone.

Stiles groans inwardly. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. He's about to break her little heart. There's not only the problem that, unless her mom or dad are trapped inside Beacon Hills, they won't pick up, but he's sure that she won't know their number by memory. He tries to think a way to distract her, but he keeps drawing a blank. Several moments later, she's still looking at him expectantly, so Stiles calls defeat because he can't get out of this one.

He takes in a fortifying breath. "Do you know the number?"

Her eyes widen and her mouth opens and closes a couple of times. Her expression falls and it's heartbreaking. Then she throws herself at Stiles and bursts out crying.

Stiles sighs.

\---

The kid is completely out. She cried herself to sleep and then conked out like the dead. He wonders how long has she kept herself awake, waiting for her parents. And where was she before? Did she hide when Stiles checked the coffee shop that first time? She's little and she seems smart... And obviously her parents taught her to be extremely wary of strangers. Stiles wouldn't be surprised if she told him she hid in a cupboard when he showed up.

It has gone dark outside and the lamps are casting eerie shadows everywhere. Just exactly what he wanted to avoid. He's not looking forward to walking to the hospital for the next ten minutes at all.

He hoists her up and goes to the entrance. He's about to leave when he hesitates. He mulls it over and decides to leave a note in plain sight to let the mom know that her daughter is well if she's actually inside Beacon Hills right now. He's wary about giving their location out, so he pins the paper on the message board near the entrance with one of the bows of her dress hiding what's written on it. The mom will recognize it immediately but it will be otherwise overlooked. He doesn't know if the precaution is really necessary, but it's better to be safe than sorry.

Then he braces himself and leaves the coffee shop.

The silence that's already creepy during the daytime is downright terrifying at night. He thinks about taking back alleys to remain hidden on his way to the hospital, but that would make things worse. There are more places to hide and pounce from in those. Never mind that they're much darker too. At this point he doesn't know what's better. If he walks near the walls to stay somewhat hidden, it will be easier for someone to grab him from side streets, and if he walks smack dab in the middle, everyone will be able see him.

His stomach starts getting tied in knots at the thought. He tightens his grip on the kid and looks at the bike. Can he ride it with her asleep in his arms without falling? Thunder explodes very near and he startles, letting out a muttered curse. Fuck it, he'll make it possible.

He hoists her higher as he mounts the bike. He tries to control his anxiety, but his hands are starting to shake. Breathe, breathe, breathe, dammit. Ok, now where does he put the bat? He's _not_ leaving it behind. It takes some skill, but he keeps it in the hand of the arm he's using to keep the kid secured.

Fuck, he has a bad feeling about this and he can't shake it off no matter how hard he tries to convince himself he's just being paranoid. He gets moving. He rides on the sidewalk for a few meters before he can't take it anymore. He pushes the bike directly into the road and starts pedalling as if his life depends on it. Then he starts hearing it. Something is following them and their footsteps are soft, but not that soft that Stiles can't hear them.

He thinks about trying to locate the source, because maybe this is like with Marion. He slows down a bit but then he sees the reflection on the edge of his vision. Whatever is following them, it's doing it on all fours. His panic rises and he pedals faster and faster. The footsteps follow right behind. He takes a sharp turn at the hospital's street and the kid startles awake. She panics too and he tries to shush her because her voice is drowning the sound made by their pursuer. He doesn't know where they are now and he can't stop to check. She struggles and makes it worse, but Stiles is stronger. He gets off the bike just before he reaches the door, almost stumbling but catching himself. He fumbles with the door panicky and finally manages to get inside and to close the door behind himself.

He looks at the street and finds it empty.

His heart pounds and pounds in his chest and he feels dizzy. The kid is in hysterics, pounding at him with her little fists. He's shaking so violently that he doesn't know how he's keeping himself up. His vision starts swimming.

The street remains empty.

He doesn't let himself be fooled. The kid is struggling still so he tries shushing her again, telling her hurriedly about the note he left for her mom as he rushes to the elevator. She finally seems to notice how frightened he is and how he keeps looking outside, and falls silent, her eyes going to the street too, looking for a threat that even he can't see right now. He hits and hits the call button but it doesn't respond.

Stiles curses lowly and looks towards the street again, his heart in his throat and about to choke him. He runs towards the stairs and starts climbing them. Second floor, third floor, stair after stair, his legs trembling from the effort. He pushes himself further and nearly sobs when he hears footsteps behind him. It spurns him to run faster and faster, his chest heaving painfully. Fourth floor, fifth floor.

He slams against the crystal door and tries to open it, but it won't budge. He hits the door frantically again and again.

"DONNA, THOMAS," he shouts out terrified. The kid is openly crying now. "OPEN THE DOOR NOW!"

Donna rushes over and pushes at the desks they've placed to protect themselves further. The footsteps come closer and closer. He sets the kid down and behind himself, brandishing the bat with violently shaking arms. He hears the door finally opening at his back. He unceremoniously grabs the kid and gets inside, slamming the door shut.

Just as he's closing the door, it shows up. Monstrously big, a hulking mass covered in dark fur, with big, sharp claws in its paws and even bigger and sharper teeth in its mouth.

"Stiles? What's wrong?! Who's that kid?"

"What's wrong?!" he shouts incredulously, his breaking voice high and hysterical. "Can't you see it?! That's what the wall is for! Oh my god!"

Thomas peers out and looks confusedly at Stiles. Donna pries Stiles' hand from the crying kid's shoulder, pushing her towards Thomas, and then turns towards Stiles.

"Did he hurt you anywhere?" she asks concerned.

"No, no," Stiles breathes out. "It followed me and- Oh my god, the wall... The wall..."

"Stiles, you need to breathe," she says calmly. 

"What?!"

He looks at Donna and then at the beast. It's not moving and its eyes are glowing blue eerily. He swallows the nausea and brandishes the bat again. He has no doubt that the doors won't hold when it tries to push its way in.

"Stiles, please look at me," she says firmly.

Stiles doesn't understand. There's a beast that could (will!) kill them right there and she wants Stiles to look at her?! Stiles wants to live. He's messed up and in his darkest moments he's wanted to give up, but he persevered. Through pain and unhappiness, he pushed forward. He wants to live. He wants to find his dad and to get out of here. He wants to go back to his life full of struggles and little victories.

"Please, look at me," she repeats when he doesn't. "This isn't working. Can you please come into the light?"

What? What does she...? Is she talking to the beast?! Stiles jumps back when it takes a few steps forward. His heart speeds up even more and his hands shake from the adrenaline.

"Come on, Stiles. Breathe for me," she continues, ignoring his outburst. "It's just a man. And you," she whispers harshly to the beast. Stiles can't understand what's happening. "You should have shown yourself! Look what you did, he's having a psychotic break!"

"I'm not- Why are you- What are you doing?! Can't you see? Why are you talking to a monster?!"

"Stiles, it's not real. Look at us. We see a man. It's a man. Look at him."

Stiles turns to look. He sees a beast. Big, bulky, with too many teeth and very sharp claws. Stiles shakes his head. Is he...? Is he like his mom? Is he losing his mind? No, no, no. No. He breathes.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

"Yes, that's it," Donna encourages him.

"You're not right in the head, man. Maybe the wall's to keep your crazy in."

"Thomas," Donna snaps. "Keep your mouth shut. Maybe this wouldn't have happened if you hadn't been a coward and let a kid do what an adult should have done."

Stiles ignores them. He's strong. He can do this. He's exhausted and he's been pushing his limits all day. He just has to breathe and calm down.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Ok, ok. He has this. He can do this. He opens his eyes and looks outside.

The beast is still there. Their eyes lock for a long minute and Stiles trembles. He looks at Donna and Thomas, and then at the kid. She's the only one that looks shaken up... but it's because of Stiles. She's looking at Stiles warily, not at the beast.

Stiles swallows thickly. The beast is only staring at Stiles. It looks curious and assessing. It's difficult to tell with all the fur, but it looks like it's also frowning. Stiles bites his lip and walks towards the door until he's facing it.

"I apologize for startling you," it... he speaks. Stiles jumps slightly. "You were carrying a child that looked like she didn't want to go with you, so I followed."

Stiles frowns and the beast... _the man_ smiles slightly, teeth gleaming with the fluorescent lights. Donna comes near and places a hand on his shoulder. Stiles jumps startled.

"Stiles," she starts saying before frowning. She takes a little flashlight out and inspects his eyes. "Your pupils are really dilated... Be honest with me, did you take something?"

"What?! No!" he exclaims affronted.

"Have you stopped at all to rest today?"

"I... No?"

She sighs. "No wonder then. You barely slept an hour too." She turns towards Thomas. "Let him in. And you're going to sleep right now, Stiles. I assume that since you didn't call, that means you found no exit or anything important?" He shakes his head slowly. "Then we'll talk tomorrow."

Stiles wants to protest as she pulls him, gently but firmly, towards the bed next to Marion. He eyes the pill that she hands him warily but he swallows it down. As he's falling asleep, he feels the beast's (the man's, Stiles!) glowing blue eyes on him.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Fi...

\---

When he wakes up, he's disoriented and he feels as if a semi rolled over him again and again. He turns his head to the side groggily, taking in the room absently. Marion is still asleep on the bed next to him, Thomas and Donna are by the reception talking softly. The beast is sitting on the chair next to his bed, leafing through a battered looking book, and the kid is playing with a ball half-heartedly next to it.

Stiles blinks and swallows. He closes his eyes tightly and opens them again. The beast is still a beast and no one else seems to be seeing it.

"What are you?" he mutters because he refuses to think that it's him that...

He's _not_ crazy. He's not like her. He's not. He won't stop being Stiles to be like her, hurting the people that she used to love when she was still Mom and not a her.

"No, dear boy," he replies with a grotesque smile that shows too many teeth, "what are _you_?"

He shouldn't have been able to even hear Stiles.

"You're not human," he accuses it, his voice no higher than a harsh whisper. The kid looks at him warily and he forces himself to ignore it because how many times did he look at _her_ like that? And Stiles is _not_ like her. "That wall is there because of you."

"Are you sure about that?" it lilts nonchalantly. It sounds weird coming from it, deep, guttural and as if coming from vocal cords that shouldn't be able to form words. "Neither are you."

"What?"

"Oh, so you don't know what you are. Interesting."

And with that, it rises from the chair and leaves a gaping Stiles behind.

\---

Neither are you.

_Neither are you._

\---

"A crash?" Donna repeats frowning. "Well, it does make sense with the type of wound that she has. It's actually what I initially thought may have caused it, but given the circumstances..."

"So there's no monster? All this," Thomas cuts in, motioning to the barricade scoffing, "was for nothing?"

He's scowling at Stiles, as if it's his fault or he deceived them, which is ridiculous and insulting. Stiles scowls right back fiercely. He's not taking any shit from that jackass. Yesterday he spent more than thirteen hours outside alone because Thomas couldn't get his shit together. He doesn't have the right to reproach him about anything.

"And how ironic would that be, because here you were, hiding like a scared mouse," he snaps viciously and Thomas goes red in the face. "But hey," Stiles continues before he can get a word out in answer, "you're safe because what you just said is plain stupid. I know that it's impossible for you to know because you stayed here yesterday while I went outside alone, but the wall is still there. Oh, wait, you can, because, you know, COMMON SENSE. But whatever, we know that's not your forte, don't we?" Thomas is opening and closing his mouth like a fish and Stiles wants to slam his stupid face against the wall. "So let me put this in a way that you'll understand: the wall is still there, which means it's keeping something or someone inside. So either that thing is out there and we haven't met it yet, or it's us."

"Us?" Donna frowns. "Why would-?"

"The fuck? Who do you think you are, huh?" Thomas growls at the same time, rising from his seat threateningly. Stiles isn't even fazed. He's been fending off bullies since he was six and they never lasted long. Anxiety or not. Thomas doesn't hold a candle against Jackson Whittemore at his worst. "Are you looking for beef, asshole?"

"Are you?" Stiles scowls. "Yes? No? Let's go with yes, shall we? Because so far that's all that you've done instead of being actually useful."

"The fuck?!"

"Who went outside yesterday for more than thirteen hours straight? The buffed up man with the horrible bleach job or the high school boy that weighs 147 pounds soaking wet?" Thomas' mouth shuts with a click. "Yeah, exactly."

"Are we done?" Donna sighs after a minute of silence. "Can we go back to what's important?"

"I don't know. Can we, Thomas?" Stiles snarks, because he's not the one that started it.

"I... Yeah, let's... Yeah," Thomas mumbles subdued.

"Was that last one necessary?" Donna reproaches him, frowning, and Stiles raises an eyebrow in challenge. She sighs but doesn't pursue the issue. "So, back to the purpose of the wall."

\---

Nothing really comes out from the conversation. For Donna and Thomas, it's out of the question that they may be the ones being kept inside by the wall. Stiles is frustrated but not surprised.

Peter. That's the name of the beast that supposedly isn't a beast... just something else. Maybe. Something else that Stiles can see because he's not human himself. Or at least not entirely, a human but with a... magic touch? (Can he still be considered a human if that's the case?) What if Donna, Thomas and Ally have something else to them too? After all, if Stiles was unaware until he encountered Peter, so could be the case with them... What if that's why they're being kept trapped inside?

It's hard to believe, he knows, but there's a wall that appeared overnight and who knows how many people missing. There's a man that looks like a beast that only Stiles can see and there are destroyed buildings that he's sure were perfectly fine before. There are so many absurd things that would make so much sense in a supernatural context.

And no, Stiles isn't crazy. He's not going off the deep end or had a sudden psychotic break. He tried to provoke Peter into scratching a table. He's sure the manbeast wanted to see how Stiles would react and that's why he played along, but Stiles didn't give him anything. He was paying too much attention to how the others reacted for that. They didn't seem to notice when Peter did that, but Stiles saw Donna frown at the deep scratchings a little later. No human nails would have been able to leave such a mark. Claws would. Which means Peter does have claws. Which in turn means Peter is some sort of manbeast and only Stiles can see it because of whatever he is.

Which means Stiles is _not_ crazy.

But he can't say anything about all that. Not about the wall holding them in, not about Peter. Ever since he woke up, Donna has been watching him like a hawk and Stiles has a bad feeling about it. Stiles likes Donna (to a point), but there's something about her that tells him that when she believes herself to be right, nothing makes her back down. Which it's not a bad thing per se, but he doesn't want it to be applied to him in this case. When they were talking about the wall, she shot down the idea of them being the ones contained too fast, too surely, and then eyed Stiles with an almost concealed suspiciousness. Stiles is pretty sure that he would have been locked up before he could finish saying the word supernatural, so he's kept his silence and vowed internally to keep investigating on his own.

Stiles wants to find his dad and then get out. He's not going to let anyone or anything stop him. Not Donna, not Thomas, not Peter the manbeast. Not a damn wall, not even himself. If he has to suddenly shake his entire world off of its axis, then so be it. Wizards, unicorns, vampires, werewolves, whatever! Bring them.

Stiles is ready.

\---

Donna stays behind today again, with Marion and Ally. Marion isn't getting any worse, but she's not getting any better either, so she can't be left unsupervised yet. And even if she wasn't, Ally is too young to come with them or to keep an eye on Marion by herself. So Donna had to stay behind with them while Thomas, Stiles and Peter go to check the portion of the wall that goes behind the preserve.

Stiles wants to snort at Thomas. He's clearly still smarting from the smack down Stiles gave him, so he's trying to prove him wrong. He's trying so hard, in fact, that he's even stomping forward a few steps ahead with his chest puffed up ridiculously. He eyed Stiles' bat before leaving (no doubt about to say something about how it would be more useful in more capable hands), but bit his tongue when Stiles narrowed his eyes warningly at him. Now he's stupidly unarmed because he didn't even try to find something that he could use to defend himself.

On the other hand, Peter, the only one of them naturally armed (instincts and weapons alike), seems cautious and vigilant. He also saw him filch a handful of scalpels before leaving, which seems a little like overkill with claws that can cut through metal as if it's soft cheese, but not really in this situation. Stiles reluctantly approves... which is unnerving and confusing.

Thomas continues stomping ahead and Stiles can't hide a wince. After so many days of almost absolute silence, it's as if someone has let an elephant roam free in a glass shop.

"I can't decide, if this was a horror movie, he'd either be the first to die horribly, or he'd be the idiot that survives out of... pure luck and because all the planets aligned or something," he mutters before he can think better of it.

Peter snorts in answer and Stiles startles because he didn't expect it. He looks at him cautiously, his hand reflexively flexing around the bat. Peter smirks.

"Only to be run over by a truck because he didn't look before crossing, I'd say," Peter replies softly, snorting. "Although, just to make things clear, sweetheart, I don't plan on dying in this movie."

"Me neither, dear," Stiles answers firmly, twirling the bat meaningfully and ignoring the threat of Peter's words.

Peter smiles with all his teeth on display. Stiles' heart accelerates but, outwardly, he only raises his eyebrow in answer.

Peter's smile widens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3 I'm mean, I know. *Evil cackle*
> 
> Also, I'm sorry but I just don't have the time to update two times a week right now, my workload is massive. Just yesterday I spent more than 14h without sitting, working like crazy and not even stopping to go to the toilet. I had one lonely smoothie and some pieces of meat from 9am to when I went to sleep, at 1am. So yeah... sorry.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaack!!! Sorry for the wait? I was really exhausted and I decided to just do what I felt like for a while. Hopefully I'll be able to resume a constant posting schedule ^^; Anyways, hope you like it!

It isn't even a conscious choice, really.

When Stiles woke up a few days ago, he would have given anything for the hustle and bustle of his town to come back, but, oh, how things have changed. They say it takes around three weeks to form a new habit, but it's only taken Stiles six days to become used to the almost complete silence, for his hearing to become more sensitive. So, now, the racket Thomas is making is grating and jarring and, three streets and a park after leaving the hospital, Stiles has put a few meters between them without even noticing what he's doing.

Stiles has tried telling him to tone it down, telling him he's drawing too much attention towards them, but Thomas refuses to listen. And what can Stiles do? Threaten him with the bat? Hah, because that would go well. So no, he has to roll with it and make the most of the situation.

Thomas curses loudly when he trips over his own two feet and Stiles cringes at how his voice carries even from a couple of feet ahead. Everything the blond does is obnoxiously loud, and the more noise Thomas makes, the more distance Stiles leaves between them.

So now he's completely aware of what he's doing... and he doesn't feel even the tiniest bit bad about it. So sue him. If Thomas wants to draw a huge target on his back, that's on him. Stiles is not going to get harmed because of it. He has to get out and find his dad and he's not going to fail because an asshole is being an idiot. Let Thomas draw the attention of whatever is out there to himself, and Stiles will be able to see the threat coming from miles away.

(If there's really something or someone out there, because Stiles' suspicion about the wall being for them is stronger and stronger with each passing minute.)

Or if Stiles doesn't, he's pretty sure Peter will, because he seems to be sharing Stiles' idea of using Thomas as bait since he's "offered" so readily. And if Peter shares any similarities with the wolf he so much resembles, his senses will be much sharper than Stiles', and he'll be more capable of noticing anything before it shows than him.

Stiles eyes the manbeast walking beside him warily. He still makes Stiles' skin crawl something fierce. Sure, so far Peter's made no move to harm him, but Stiles can't trust that. He has the feeling that Peter is the type of person that doesn't do anything that won't benefit his interests. Which means that he won't hurt Stiles unless it benefits him somehow, but he won't help him either if it will cause him any type of loss. Or more like, if the benefit he'll gain from helping Stiles will be less than the damage it will cause him.

Stiles is surprisingly fine with that. Well, not surprisingly, because isn't Stiles the same? Isn't he wired exactly like that too? He is. People like to lie to themselves, but Stiles never does. Everything Stiles does is self-serving in a way. Everything. In one way or another, it always comes back to Stiles.

He brings Tara the cookies she loves because he likes the way she smiles at him, because that makes _Stiles_ feel warm and nice. He kept silent about _her_ for a long time because it made _Stiles_ feel like a better son. He hounds his dad to eat healthy because _Stiles_ is terrified of losing him and being alone.

Stiles, Stiles, Stiles, Stiles. Always ultimately Stiles.

So yes, Peter makes Stiles' skin crawl, but not because of his appearance or his morally grey stance in life. Who wouldn't be wary walking beside a hulking beast that could kill you with its pinky's nail? Stiles hasn't proven himself indispensable or gained Peter's loyalty, after all.

But then again, neither has Peter. And Stiles may be 147 pounds of skin, bones and sarcasm, but he's not one you would want to mess with either. There's a reason he's never bullied at school, and it's not precisely that he's popular. Stiles tends to inflict back the pain that's bestowed upon him tenfold, and that has garnered him a reputation that he's proud of. Peter had better be careful with his choices because Stiles will go down kicking and screaming, and quite possibly dragging Peter himself with him.

And yes, Stiles may be making assumptions about how Peter is, but he's never been wrong about anyone before. He knew Harris would be a dick the moment he met him, he knew Finstock was going to be weird and mouthy, but ultimately good. Even as a kid, he knew Tara would be an angel that came from heaven and he knew that Johnson was a good guy that would sneak him chocolate when his dad wasn't looking, but Michaels was the one to approach for advice. At first glance, Whittemore a douche, Cooper a backstabbing but mousey-looking idiot, Daehler a creep, Martin a genius, Mahealani a nice cool guy, Maldonado a sweet and shy girl, and so on, and so on.

So for now, he walks beside Peter.

\---

It takes a while to reach the Preserve by foot and Stiles isn't going to waste that time completely. Now that Thomas is unknowingly acting as bait and Peter is beside him keeping an eye out, Stiles feels secure enough to divide his attention from the road and look around more carefully. Again, not that he trusts him to keep him safe, but it's a given that Peter will be faster, so Stiles will react accordingly.

His eyes dart around continuously, trying to take in every detail. As always, besides the noise they're producing, there's no other sound. Not even the buzz of electronics. Which, now that he thinks of it, it's really weird. In every place he's been to (that's not damaged), the electronic devices worked perfectly well and were completely silent. The station, the mall, the supermarket... All the machines at the hospital were on, but they never produced any sound at all. And Stiles _knows_ they should. And now that he thinks of it... Well, he'll have to wait until they're back to check that but he's sure...

Stiles stops suddenly and looks around frowning. There. And there too. But how? And when? And he has... He takes another uneasy look around, heart starting to beat faster.

Peter notices him stopping and looks at him quizzically, which is really strange that Stiles can tell, because his face is that of a wolf's and not as expressive as a human's. But somehow he knows. Which is another thing to add to the list of weird things, but he'll get back to it later. Now there are more important matters.

"Thomas," he calls him, trying to do it as low as he can while still making sure he's heard.

"What," he snaps back loudly and Stiles winces internally at the volume.

Stiles ignores him, pretty sure by now that Thomas is doing it on purpose; partly to annoy Stiles, partly to convince himself that he's not scared, which is so, so stupid because how can he overcome his fears if he doesn't acknowledge that he's afraid? In any case, stupid or not, Stiles doesn't want to let him know how much it affects him because it will only make things worse with someone like Thomas.

He makes a gesture to make him wait and looks at the nearest building that drew his attention. He swallows thickly and approaches it cautiously. He peers inside through the glass, frowning and clutching his bat tightly.

"Is now really the time for window shopping, man?" Thomas says incredulously and a touch derisively.

Stiles jumps slightly at hearing him so near, and then resists the urge to shut him up by force. He breathes in and goes back to inspecting the inside of the shop.

"Well, it's never going to be cheaper," he replies blithely because his tongue is a better weapon where Thomas is concerned, and he hears Peter snort softly.

Tables, chairs, lamps... Sofas, bedposts, wardrobes, cupboards... Cash registers, telephone at the back. Lots of places to hide and spring from...

"The fuck?! You're worse that my woman, man," he snarks snidely, something ugly in his voice.

... and Thomas keeps wailing. He takes a step back just in case, but keeps looking inside through the corner of his eye. At the moment, Thomas is the one closest to the window.

"Your woman," Stiles says, disbelieving.

There's something in the way he says that... Stiles contains a grimace. The more time he spends with this guy, the more he rubs him the wrong way and raises his hackles.

"My girlfriend, man. Always buying shit that she doesn't need. Like all that fresh... What's wrong with the frozen stuff? It tastes ok! And then she pitches a fit when I buy a car without telling her. If she hadn't spent so much on food, we wouldn't have had problems with the rent, dammit. It would have been at least... what, fifty dollars less? No, eighty, I think? Fresh food is fucking expensive..."

Stiles doesn't know what face he's making, but it must be epic, because it's prompting Thomas to talk and talk more to explain his reasoning. And the more he talks, the more disgusted Stiles feels by this man-child that thinks that buying protein powder (to get more muscle, because he needs it to protect his house, his things, his woman, you know?) with his girlfriend's money (because he's already spent his own and then some on a car he didn't need, and he _can't_ go without the protein!) when they're short to pay the rent is ok. And he gets angry because his girlfriend got pissed off, because he knows she has something stashed away for emergencies. And isn't paying the rent an emergency?

"... always bitching about every thing I do! Do you see me complaining about how much she spends on tampons or whatever?!"

Fuck, Stiles really wants to bash this asshole's head against the wall. How can that poor woman stand him? Stiles would have... Then, something clicks suddenly.

"Ah, so you mean the girlfriend that you no longer have?" Stiles cuts in before he can stop himself.

(A Stiles with his hackles raised is a nasty Stiles, so sue him.)

"What?! I never said... How did you-?!"

"Because no woman would lower herself to stand a piece of shit like you for long. Or man, for that matter."

"You little-" Thomas starts growling at the same time that he shoots a dark look at Peter for his amused snort.

Peter smiles with all teeth and Thomas backs off hurriedly, shutting up instantly. Which is interesting, because he obviously can't see what Stiles can see. Does this mean that Thomas' subconscious somehow does? Because it's certainly not because of anything Peter has said that has made alarms ring in his head. Peter doesn't talk much. How many times has Stiles heard him speak since yesterday? Twice? Thrice? He even kept silent during their discussion this morning.

Other things to file away for later.

"This was destroyed yesterday," Stiles continues, ignoring Thomas' glower.

" _What?_ " Thomas sneers at the same time that Peter makes an inquiring sound. "No, it's not."

"Yesterday it was," Stiles replies, completely sure.

"You _are_ crazy. Can't you see it's not? Look I've come here like a thousand times with my girlfriend..."

"No longer your girlfriend," Stiles corrects him gently and with a smile, taking pleasure in how he grits his teeth.

"...and it looks exactly the same! What, did a crew of elves come? Did they repair it with their magical magic?"

"I don't know," Stiles replies, still in that same gentle tone and smiling. "Were they the ones that built the wall in one night? Or destroyed about half the buildings in this town? Or made all the people disappear?" Thomas' mouth snaps shut with a click and Stiles feels inordinately pleased about that. Stiles doesn't know what it is about him that sets his teeth on edge, but the more time he spends with Thomas, the more acutely he feels it. It's not about him being a douche, it's something else and Stiles doesn't like it at all. And it's absurd because Peter is the one that looks like a monster out of a horror movie. Then again, not all monsters look like monsters, right? "All I know is that this shop was completely destroyed yesterday. And that coffee shop over there? It was too. And now they aren't, so why?"

"Fuck this," Thomas snarls, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. "I'm out. I'm not going to go into a forest with a psycho like you." He looks at Peter and sneers. "Or Mr. Silence of the Lambs here. I'm out."

"Wow, what a record," Stiles mocks nastily. He doesn't care about Thomas staying or not. If he leaves, he won't be painting a target on their backs anymore. If he stays, they get to keep their annoying bait. Stiles (and Peter) gains and loses something whatever happens. "You've managed to hang onto your balls for this long. Congratulations, it must have been so hard for you!" He claps softly but quickly. "And now that you've found an excuse to leave, you can go and hide with Donna. You know, stay in one place, where you can be found easily and you're an even easier target. But at least that will give Donna the time to help Ally and Marion, so hey, you have your uses after all."

"Fuck you, man! You think you're the shit, don't you? Hah, you're going to get killed while I'm safe, bitch. Good luck in hell, getting your ass busted by-"

"And good luck to you on your way back," Stiles cuts in, smiling at him, wide and sinister, and twirling his bat for effect. "Alone, asshole."

Thomas gapes. He looks wide-eyed at the road they've left behind them and then at the one in front of them. Then he swallows audibly, sneers at both Stiles and Peter, and turns to go back to the hospital. Some twisted part of Stiles finds it funny that he tries to be silent as he walks.

"Also good luck trying to find a way to get out of here on your own if we get killed," Stiles singsongs at his retreating back.

Peter starts laughing. It's a barking sound, guttural and the stuff straight out of the worst horror movie.

(Thomas hastens his pace.)

\---

Peter and Stiles continue walking in silence. It takes a long time to get to the preserve by foot and Stiles is missing his bike fiercely. It's going to be a long day.

He's not being as thorough as he was before, when he had Thomas acting as bait, but he's trying to keep an eye out for more anomalies while paying attention to his immediate surroundings. So far, he's spotted another three buildings that he's sure were destroyed the last time he checked them. It's really confusing and unnerving.

He takes a look at Peter and his heart skips a beat at the primal expression on his face and the glowing blue eyes that had been normal since they left the hospital this morning. As if sensing his turmoil, Peter turns to look at him, eyes unnervingly focused.

"Three more buildings," he blurts out.

"The elves magical magic again?" Peter growls lowly, obviously as a mock towards Thomas, not Stiles. (How he knows that, Stiles doesn't know.) His enunciation sounds weird, as if it's difficult for him to get out the words.

"Yeah," Stiles confirms.

"How many so far?" Peter asks, his enunciation clearing marginally. The more words come out of his mouth, the less primal he looks. Stiles swallows thickly.

"Five that I noticed," Stiles hums, peeling his eyes from Peter as if he's noticed nothing. "And I'm not sure, but I think that at least two and a half floors of the hospital were full of rubble before, and when I came back with Ally yesterday they weren't."

"Not sure?"

Stiles shoots a dirty look at him. "I was busy running for my life, sorry for not being able to give to a clearer answer."

Peter snorts, amused. "So touchy," he purrs mockingly. His words are clearer with each passing minute.

Stiles narrows his eyes dangerously as he brandishes his bat. "So touchy that I'll make your brains splatter against the ground if you do something like that ever again."

Peter pauses to study Stiles openly. Then he smiles widely, obviously delighted. "You're not lying. You do believe you can do that."

That tone. Stiles frowns. "And you somehow can tell that."

"Well, you have very expressive eyes, sweetheart."

"You're lying. It's not that."

He is. Peter is lying, Stiles knows. But it's not his face or his eyes that give him away, Stiles just _knows_.

Why? Just what is Stiles? Is he like Peter? Does he look human to others, but Peter can see he's not? Just like Stiles can see Peter is not human? Can he tell Stiles wasn't bluffing because of that?

"Am I? Hmmm. How are you so sure?"

"I just... I just am. And you're trying to..." He's toying with Stiles... Wait, no, he isn't. He's _fishing_. But there's nothing to catch because Stiles doesn't know. "How can _you_ tell? Does it have to do with..." He looks at the wolf features, the fur, the snout, the fangs. By the time Stiles lowers his eyes, they're watering from the splitting headache he suddenly has, and there's a ringing in his ears. Thunder explodes not far away. "What do you see?" he blurts out, his hand closing reflexively around Peter's arm. It's warm and he can feel the powerful muscles shift beneath his palm. It helps him keep himself grounded and upright on his trembling legs.

Peter takes a sharp intake of air at the touch and shakes under Stiles' palm. "What do I... see?" 

"Yes," he chokes out. "I see something like a wolf walking on two legs when I look at you." He reaches with his free hand, his index finger brushing briefly against the protruding muzzle before retracting, lightning fast. "What do you see when you look at _me_ , Peter?"

_What is Stiles?_

Breathe, he thinks. Breathe, Stiles. Breathe because Peter's lips are moving but he can't hear a thing. Breathe!

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Thr-

\---

_Can't you see?! Please, John!_

_Please!_

_He's going to kill me!_

\---

_I won't let you._

\---

Stiles wakes up with a start. Rain is pouring heavily outside. It's hitting the window continuously, almost as fast as his racing heart. He can hear it going down the drain heavily too, like a never-ending cascade. Lightning illuminates the cloud-filled sky every now and then, and thunder follows it almost immediately.

Stiles' body is being shaken by full body tremors. He swallows with a grimace and shivers, feeling cold on too many levels. Peter, unlike him, is like a furnace, he notices detachedly. Not just warm, but scorching hot. Under his fingers, he can feel Peter's pulse. It's a steady thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

He doesn't remember when he closed his eyes but it's not like it's important anyways. Stiles opens them sluggishly. The storm is easing up outside and the thunder and lightning have stopped completely. The furry rug under him is so soft that he can't help but bury his free hand in it. He closes his eyes again.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

He opens his eyes and raises them to meet Peter's. Stiles' hand twitches where it's still clasped around his forearm. He should let go but he doesn't want to. (Why?) He realizes vaguely that Peter hasn't made a move to detach him either. (Why?) He's so warm. So, so warm.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

"I'm not a... _something_ , Stiles," Peter says suavely in his guttural voice, breaking the easy silence.

It rings with a subtle but powerful warning, but Stiles doesn't need it. Just like Stiles is not crazy, Peter is not a thing.

Stiles blinks slowly. "You're a werewolf," he says simply.

"Hmm," Peter hums.

"You were born a werewolf."

"Hmm," Peter hums again.

"I can tell when people are lying to me. I know how people really are the moment I meet them. What am I, Peter?"

"I don't know."

"What do you see?"

Peter leans over him for a few seconds. Then he raises his free hand and lets it hover over his face. One claw traces the outline of Stiles' eyes in the air for a second before Peter speaks. "Whiskey colored eyes." He grazes the skin over his nose and cheek, surprisingly lightly. "Moles." He lifts the forearm Stiles is grasping and shakes it gently, but making sure to not dislodge him. Stiles tightens his grip. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump under his hand. "Gangly limbs everywhere."

So nothing out of the ordinary. No extra appendages or different features. Just 147 pounds of Stiles, sarcasm and anxiety included.

He locks eyes with Peter. Peter's eyes are incredibly blue and they're making something niggle at the back of Stiles' mind. Has he met Peter before? Thinking about it is making his head hurt. But wait, didn't Thomas say it? Didn't he say Stiles woke up calling a Peter? Stiles swallows around the lump in his throat.

"What am I, Peter?"

"I don't know."

Stiles sighs and closes his eyes for a second. He rubs his forehead tiredly, hoping to ease the slight headache that he has. He feels somewhat numb, but that's normal for him after what happened. He pushes himself up as he reopens them to take a good look around, hand still clasped around Peter's forearm.

It's an arts and crafts shop. It's colorful and cozy, the type of shop that has too many things filling every space in sight and looks a mess, but has a method to its madness. It's ironic that Stiles had never set foot inside before today, and now he has spent who knows how long unconscious on its rug covered wooden floor. He's also pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to sense how soft the rug was before today, because three days ago, a mixture of rubble and dust covered that same floor.

"Six," he announces tiredly. At Peter's inquiring look he elaborates. "Magical magic."

Peter looks around for a moment, an expression of distaste crossing his face briefly before disappearing. "It's exactly as I remember it... Down to the coffee stain on the counter."

"Coffee stain?" Stiles asks, his lips twitching at the affronted tone.

"Same exact spot as a month ago," Peter nods with a grimace.

Stiles snorts softly. "Well, this was completely destroyed three days ago, so that elven magical magic is the bomb, then." Peter's head turns abruptly to look at Stiles. "What?"

"Three days you say?"

"I think so? I'm pretty sure I checked this one on my third day, but I may be wrong. After so many buildings it kinda got blurred." Peter is frowning, Stiles notices. "What? What is it?"

"When did you...? How many days have you been...?"

"Inside Silent Hill minus weird coming at me from dark places? Oh, wait," Stiles contains the impulse of making a crack about his first encounter with Peter. It's a close thing, but he manages. Peter narrows his eyes at him but Stiles knows he's amused. "About six days."

"Huh," Peter replies simply.

"Huh?"

"The day I followed you? Yesterday?" he says as if he's checking to be sure that Stiles is following him.

"Yes?" Stiles says, prompting him to continue because he doesn't know what Peter is trying to get at.

"That's when I saw the town empty, Stiles. It was perfectly normal before."

A beat of silence and then.

"What?!" Stiles exclaims, gaping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three thousand years later... ^^;

Peter doesn't answer and Stiles doesn't know what else to say. It just... doesn't make any sense. What the hell is happening? Is he dreaming? Is that it? Because that's the only explanation he can find that remotely makes sense. The missing people, the destroyed buildings that look perfectly fine from the outside and the magical magic that's mysteriously repairing them down to a coffee stain on a counter. The electronics that don't make a sound, the wall that appeared out of nowhere... werewolves. Everything is possible in a dream, right? It would explain everything...

Except it wouldn't, really. Because it's too vivid and detailed, and he stubbed his toe just yesterday and it hurt like hell. And even if that was a thing (Stiles is no expert, he doesn't know if feeling pain in a dream or if any of that is possible, and it's not like he can check it out with no Internet), he's seeing places he's never been to and... talking about things he has no knowledge about.

And sure, he could be dreaming about Peter and the supernatural or imagining new places that won't really exist or be the same if he wakes up, but the other things? He's never googled anything related to medicine, never watched any hospital shows (he can't stand them) and only knows the very basics of first aid, so what Donna was talking about (and doing) is way over his head. And it's not only that. He's never worked out besides what he does at school or been interested in the specialized training Thomas babbled about that first day.  Interval training and calisthenics! Protein powder, L-carnitine, L-arginine, fish oil! What even is CLA? Some of those words, Stiles doesn't even _know_ , so how is he dreaming about them?

The answer? He can't be, ergo this is no dream.

"That's," Stiles manages to blurt out before his own saliva goes the wrong way and he has to stop to cough for a second until he clears his airway. "Peter," he chokes out with teary eyes the moment sweet oxygen is finally filling his lungs again. "That's... Besides Ally, I met the others two days ago. Two, Peter."

Peter's expression twists and muscles go incredibly taut under Stiles' hand. "That's not... It can't be."

Words fail them both, which is a first for Stiles and he doesn't like the feeling at all. Something tells him that it's a first for Peter too. A shiver makes Stiles shudder, his hand clenching reflexively and Peter's free hand lays over it. Their eyes lock.

"Maybe you were unconscious or something? Did you notice anything strange when you woke up?"

"Besides the Houdini act of who knows how many people, you mean?" Peter quips dryly and Stiles levels an unimpressed look at him. Peter smirks briefly before sobering. "I woke up in my bed. I fell asleep while reading a book and woke up with it plastered to my face. I was... alone."

Stiles waits for him to continue but he doesn't. "Alone?" he prompts him gently.

"I live with my pack, Stiles." Stiles mouths the word internally and tries to understand it because it seems important. Family but more is what his mind supplies almost immediately. "They weren't there."

"And that's not normal?"

"No, it isn't. Not by a long shot. Especially now that it's Christmas season and we're like stuffed sardines with all of them visiting."

Stiles' brain screeches to a halt.

"Wait, what?" Stiles exclaims when it finally reboots. "What did you just say?"

Peter frowns confused. "What?"

"Did you just say Christmas?"

"Yes?"

"It's July, Peter."

"What are you talking about? It's January."

"No, it's really not," Stiles lets out apprehensively. "School just ended, I've been on vacation for three weeks now. Look, don't you see? No Christmas lights on the street. No decorations in the shops."

Peter gets up abruptly, pulling the still attached Stiles with him. He moves purposefully towards the window and peers outside. Stiles looks around and bites his lip, because what he said is true. It looks nothing like how it does during the Christmas season. Peter shakes minutely, his hand clenching Stiles' just on the verge of being painful, and Stiles turns to lay his free hand on his shoulder.

"That's impossible," Peter croaks out, shocked.

Stiles is as shaky and confused as Peter. He doesn't know what to say, so he just tightens his grip, both on the shoulder and the forearm. Peter takes a deep shuddering breath that Stiles copies.

"Ok... Ok," Stiles says, both to Peter and himself. "We'll figure this out. Just." His heart is hammering in his chest and his headache is becoming progressively worse again. He needs to control it before it gets out of hand. He takes a look at Peter and he sees him as rattled and shaky as Stiles. "Let's just... Let's breathe, ok?"

"And what exactly am I doing now?" Peter snaps faintly.

"Panicking." Peter snarls but Stiles is undeterred. "And... Let's just breathe for a second, ok?"

Peter snarls again and shakes his shoulder, effectively dislodging Stiles' hand. "Let go," he growls as he shakes his forearm too, but he doesn't let go himself. He realizes it and takes his hand off. "I said-"

Peter's voice dies abruptly the moment Stiles' hand lets go. _Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong._ Stiles' heart seizes in his chest, but before he can even react, Peter's hand clasps over his own, lightning fast, and the overpowering feeling dies. The look at each other wide-eyed, panting and with their hearts thundering in their ears deafeningly.

"Breathe," Stiles gasps out when things start to go fuzzy around the edges and Peter nods shakily.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

"That's it," Stiles says shakily. "We'll figure this out."

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Their breath syncs so effortlessly that it's absurd. Stiles stifles a gasp when, before his eyes, Peter starts to change slowly. The wolf features start to recede, melting into more human-like ones. Stiles swallows and focuses on breathing, keeping his eyes locked with Peter's.

"You're not alone," he adds. He doesn't know if it's for his benefit or Peter's. Maybe it's both.

Peter is smart. Stiles is smart. They will figure this out.

Together.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

"I think... we should ask the others too," Peter finally says a while later, when their world has stopped spinning off of its axis. "If they woke up the day you met them, that would mean that you were the first here. That... That has to mean something."

(Peter is smart.)

Stiles swallows thickly and nods.

"And it's not hot enough. Too much rain too," Stiles adds. It's been nagging him at the back of his head but there were more important things to think about. That's not the case anymore. "For July," he clarifies. "So... so we should ask them the date too."

(Stiles is smart.)

Peter nods. His eyes are still blue, but not as electric. His hair is styled back neatly and he has no facial hair. He looks some years older than Stiles, twenty-five at the most is his guess. Stiles' eyes go down a very thick but human neck, chest and arm, reaching a hand that has no claws now, just blunt human nails. It's clasped around his own tightly. Peter is tanned and it makes a striking contrast with Stiles' pasty white skin. 

  

(And they're going to figure this out.)

Stiles squeezes his hand before looking at Peter's face again. Peter squeezes back.

(Together.)

"Peter. You..." Stiles hesitates because saying something like _you look human_ doesn't sound right and he doesn't know how to say that in a less insulting way. (Peter is not a something, just like Stiles' not crazy.) A movement at the corner of his eye catches his attention for a second and he looks to the side. "What the-?!"

He turns fully and gapes. There, looking lost and as if her mind is not completely there, is Marion, walking slowly but surely in the middle of the road.

\---

(Before leaving the store, they try to let go once again.)

( _Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong._ )

(They can't.)

\---

"Marion?" Stiles calls softly when they reach her.

She stops and looks at them, her beautiful features twisted in a grimace of pain. Her eyes have trouble focusing and she closes them continuously. She raises her hand and touches the bandage on her head gingerly. At least it looks clean, Stiles notices, relieved to see no traces of blood seeping through them.

"I... You are..." She wobbles a little in place but raises her hand to stop him when he makes an attempt to help her. "I know you? You helped me, right?"

"Ah, yes," Stiles answers, jittery with nerves. Peter squeezes his hand and Stiles forces himself to take a deep steadying breath. Peter's hand is incredibly warm. It's not so big that it dwarfs Stiles' own, but big enough to feel secure and comforting. This realization is confusing because Stiles hasn't held hands with anyone since he was eight and he hasn't felt the need to do it since he was nine. "I helped bring you to the hospital. I'm Stiles."

"Stiles, yes. You... You swore to never change a diaper?" Peter snorts at that but keeps quiet otherwise, his eyes scanning their surroundings carefully. "Am I imagining things again?"

"No, no, I did, but... Imagining things?"

"I keep... I keep..." She stops talking and tries to breathe through the pain. "He came and..."

"Marion?" Stiles calls her softly when she falls silent. "He came, you say? What happened? Why are you here? Did you leave without anyone noticing? Did Donna-?"

"I need to go. I can't stay here," she cuts in decisively before pushing herself forward.

"Marion!" Stiles calls her again, exchanging a confused look with Peter. "Wait!"

"I need to go. I can't stay here," she repeats, pushing herself forward on shaky legs.

"Go where?" Peter asks, his eyes on her briefly before going to their surroundings again.

"Who are you?" she asks instead of replying but seems to forget about Peter the moment the words leave her lips. She keeps walking. "I... I need..."

"Marion, go where?" Stiles repeats, trying to get her attention.

"I need my car," she replies finally but still moving forward, painstakingly slow. "Everything will be better if I get to my car."

"Your car?" Stiles says perplexed.

"I need to go. I can't stay here," she repeats. "I need my car to get back."

She keeps muttering that as she walks. Stiles swallows nervously and shoots a helpless look at Peter. Peter shrugs and shakes his head ruefully. They need to get her back to the hospital, but she won't settle down until she sees her car... which is right in the opposite direction, about half an hour away walking.

"Marion," Stiles calls her again, making a decision quickly. The hospital is on the way to the crash site. Maybe they can manage to convince her to see Donna first. If not, maybe they can make her wait while Donna comes down to keep an eye on her. "Your car is the other way, remember?"

"...stay here. I need..." She turns slowly to face Stiles. "My car?"

"Yes, remember?"

He rattles off the name of the street and she looks relieved for a moment, as if she has been trying to recall a memory that eluded her and Stiles has given her the key to do so. Then her expression goes blank again and she starts walking in the direction Stiles has pointed out.

Stiles trades another look with Peter and then they follow her, hand in hand. Sadly, the wall and the Preserve will have to wait for another day. They're already low in numbers and, despite Stiles' spiteful jab at Thomas as he left, they can't afford to lose anyone. Everyone is a piece of the puzzle, after all, and if they lose pieces, they risk not being able to see the full picture.

And so, after Marion they go.

\---

It's a painstakingly slow, if steady process. Marion refuses to be helped in any way, going as far as to nearly panic when she stumbles and they try to help her up. Stiles tries to explain that they would get her to the car faster if they were to carry her, but to no avail. And they don't want to force her given her injuries and her state of mind, so they can only follow after her and hope she doesn't die on the way.

Stiles takes out his phone and dials Donna's number again. It rings and rings but she doesn't pick up.

"Nothing?" Peter says softly as his eyes roam around them.

Stiles shakes his head, his own eyes glued to Marion. Unlike Thomas, Marion doesn't make much noise, and her laboring breath is much more noticeable because of it. It's making Stiles' nerves stand on end. Peter isn't as affected by it, it seems, but Stiles can tell that he hates that they're walking in the middle of the road, in plain sight.

"She said _he came_ ," Peter mutters, eyes still scanning their surroundings intently.

"I know," Stiles replies with a grimace. "But..." He swallows thickly and tries to organize his jumbled thoughts. "There are too many possibilities. She didn't say that they were attacked specifically, so, for all we know, the man that came could be Thomas and Donna isn't answering because she left her phone behind when she discovered Marion gone." He takes a deep breath. "Marion was really out of it when Thomas found us so maybe she doesn't remember who he is and she spooked when she saw him. I know that Thomas was there yesterday, when I was out by myself, but I don't know if she woke up at all, or, if she did, if she was well enough that the memory stuck. I carried her for... what, hours? And she barely remembered me. Bottom line, she's clearly not well, so we won't know until we get there."

Peter hums thoughtfully, mulling over what Stiles has said. "She was frightened, not just spooked." Stiles looks at him briefly. Peter sounds completely sure about it and Stiles wonders if whatever tells him when people is lying is at play here too. "Have you considered that it could be Thomas who attacked them?"

Stiles bites his lip. "Yeah."

Peter makes a soft acknowledging sound. "You're really calm about this."

"I'm not. Not really," Stiles corrects him chagrined. Not only was Donna there, but Ally. A kid who Stiles has already terrified for apparently no reason. Guilt churns in his stomach, lava hot. "But I never am anyways, so I'm used to..." He waves his free hand hoping that Peter understands what he means. Peter hums in answer, so Stiles takes that as that he gets the gist of it. "At least at my normal levels," he admits, because this man has seen him have a complete meltdown and has helped him through it, so Stiles guesses he at least deserves some kind of explanation. "These past few days have been... a bit too much. And these things tend to pile up and come back to bite you in the ass when you least expect it."

It should rankle, this honesty. Stiles hates showing weakness so much that he's sure that he breaks into a rash when it happens... which is rarely (in public), but that's not the point. The point is that he just admitted something to a person he's just met not even a day ago. A person that shaved about ten years off his life with the way he scared him almost to death. And he's holding hands with him.

(And he likes it. It's comforting.)

It's not normal.

But then again, what's normal about this whole situation? And if he's being honest with himself, what was normal about his life before his world went all Silent Hill on him? He has ADHD, a mild form of OCD and an anxiety disorder. His dad is a total workaholic (and on his way to becoming a functional alcoholic) whom Stiles normally fleetingly sees, maybe, five times a week because when he's not working, he's trying to _fix things to the way they should be_. Which is impossible because his mom (no, not his mom, just _she _, that woman, because his mom is gone) is in psychiatric care and thinks Stiles is out to kill her.__

__

____

Stiles' stomach twists and he fights the nausea. What's normal about that, huh? Besides, even if he had an idyllic home life, Stiles' wasn't normal to begin with. He was born abnormal, so why would his life be normal in any shape or form?

His dark train of thought screeches to a halt abruptly in its downward spiral when Peter squeezes his hand. Stiles looks at him quizzically, trying to not let his inner turmoil show. Because he may feel inexplicably, absurdly comfortable with Peter, but it's one thing to show some vulnerability and another to spill his guts about everything wrong in his life.

"What is it?" Peter asks.

"What's what?"

"You're nervous again."

"I'm not," Stiles answers, face completely expressionless but with his heart still thundering.

"Agitated, then," Peter corrects himself, rolling his eyes as if that's a concession on his part.

"I'm not," Stiles grits out, fighting the sudden urge to slap that expression out of the man's face. With prejudice.

"I thought we had already established that I can tell when you're lying. Do keep up, sweetheart."

"And I thought we had already established that I'm always nervous. Wait, no, agitated. Do keep up, dear," Stiles snarks after a beat of silence, feeling way too raw to have this conversation.

Peter raises an eyebrow. "We have. But your heart went from _I'm a real life human rabbit_ (which, for the record, I know for a fact is not a thing even if you make a pretty good attempt at it) to _holy shit, a thirty foot naga is trying to turn me into baby naga chew, I'm out of here_. So what is it?"

Stiles' eyes narrow. He doesn't want to talk about it and since sometimes the best defence is a good attack...

"My heart is beating fast, huh. So you do get enhanced hearing because of your werewolfiness. I had wondered about that. What about your other senses?" Stiles grins vindictively when Peter narrows his eyes at him too. He pauses for effect when a sudden realization assaults him. "That's why you knew I was lying, didn't you? What gave it away? The scent? Wait... No. Was it my heartbeat?" Peter looks surprised for a moment. It's subtle but Stiles catches it. "It is!" he crows.

"Well," Peter says after a stunned moment, "aren't you a smart little rabbit."

Stiles grins triumphantly, too high from his win to care about the rabbit moniker. "Well, what is it? Does it beat faster? Slower? Can it be controlled so it doesn't give you away? I bet you can or being in a werewolf fami- pack would suck. Or you'd have to learn to use double meaning like a pro, I guess... because there _has_ to be a way around that."

Peter smiles and it looks fond to Stiles' eyes. He blinks, thrown off. "It's a blip," Peter finally admits, "and it's a known fact that you can't control it."

Stiles narrows his eyes again, because this feels as if Peter is testing him somehow. "I bet you can."

A beat of silence.

"Of course I can," Peter sniffs as if offended, hiding a grin. "A person's heartbeat gives away a lot, not only if they're lying or not. I value my privacy and I'm not about to let a thing like my scent or my heartbeat broadcast it away by the second." Which Stiles guesses that means that Peter tried and tried until he found a way, while others just accepted it as something intrinsic to their nature and thus unavoidable. Stiles, who has found ways around his limitations, countless disheartening failures after failures before he did, is viciously proud of Peter. "As if I would let something like that rule me. Don't you dare lump me in with _them_."

"Of course not," Stiles snorts at his snotty tone, even if he's grinning because Peter's victory feels like his own somehow. "You're not a commoner, my lord."

"You bet I'm not, hah!"

Stiles' breath gets caught in his throat suddenly and his grin dies. _You're just different, honey,_ his mom used to say when he came back stone-faced after a day of school, hating his teachers and his peers in equal, terrifying, amounts. _My beautiful, special baby boy._

"You're different," he muses and the words hurt even more said aloud.

"And thank God for that," Peter sneers in answer, thinking Stiles had said those words to him.

Stiles can almost see a history as extensive as his contained in Peter's answer and his heart constricts. Will he be so comfortable in his own skin one day? Will he not care about being different? Embrace it wholeheartedly like Peter? Peter, who was already born different and who also seemingly chose willingly to distance himself from those that were born with that shared initial difference?

"I wish I wasn't," he whispers tiredly. He regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth and he winces, because this is exactly what he wanted to avoid, dammit. "Fuck," he mutters.

Peter turns to look at him fully. He stops and in turn forces Stiles to do the same when he's already a few steps ahead because Peter refuses to move. Their linked arms are outstretched as much as they can be between them without breaking their hold, but not uncomfortably so. Marion continues advancing painstakingly slowly, just a little ahead of them, and Stiles chooses to keep his eyes on her.

"Different?"

Stiles wants to find a hole to bury himself in, but he nods anyways because it's too late for that. "Yeah." Silence stretches a few minutes and Marion shuffles ahead. Stiles bites his lip. "I realize that not even identical twins are, well, identical, you know? That everyone is different. But..."

"Couldn't you have been less different? More like them? Normal," Peter finishes when Stiles falls silent.

Peter's voice is slightly mocking, but to Stiles it sounds as if once upon a time, those exact words were echoes of Peter's own thoughts and he's jeering at his past self. Stiles wants ( _needs_ ) to know how Peter went from that, to unabashedly relishing in being different.

"I know, I know. Normalcy is overrated and all that," Stiles sighs.

"Wrong," Peter replies. He sounds slightly bitter, as if he's had to learn this lesson the hard way. Stiles tightens his grip, now even more regretful of having brought up this topic. "It's an illusion. No one is really normal because normalcy doesn't exist. It's a subjective concept that changes continuously and is tied to the whims of the majority. And that makes it impossible to fit. Even..." He makes a _whatever_ hand gesture. "Linda, the most asinine-looking soccer mom, with her white fence surrounded house and a family van, has something that makes her different, abnormal. A dirty little secret that would be frowned upon by others."

"That's oddly specific," Stiles snorts tiredly, eyes still following Marion's sluggish progress.

"That's because it is. She was a ditzy blonde, tooth-rottingly sweet and nice. She brought superb cupcakes to every match... and also was secretly a naga."

Stiles chokes for a second and then snorts, trying to keep his laughter in and failing. It's absurd that he can laugh now, when he's feeling so lost and raw. He rubs his eyes and resolutely ignores the hysterical edge of his laughter.

"Did she really try to turn you into baby naga chow?"

"You would focus on that," Peter sighs and Stiles grins. "She _tried_. Her human husband too."

Stiles' laugh cuts off abruptly and he turns to look wide-eyed at Peter. "Seriously?! I'm all for loving whoever you..."

"Which only proves that there's always someone out there that will like your particular brand of normalcy," Peter snorts wryly. Stiles gasps quietly, shocked silent. Those words reach deep and they do it fast. He purses his lips, fidgets for a second, and then turns towards Marion resolutely. Peter huffs, self-deprecating, as if he's remembering a time when he cared, and Stiles squeezes his hand again. "So, ultimately, trying to change who you are intrinsically for others will only make you miserable and, in the end, it's a waste of time."

"Because normalcy is subjective and that makes it impossible to reach," Stiles sighs defeatedly, waving his hand in an acknowledging gesture.

"Exactly. And, on that illuminating and groundbreaking note, let's change the topic, sweetheart. I don't know about you, but all this is about to give me a rash."

Stiles snorts. "What, no _embrace your sense of self_ , _you don't need anyone_ or _someone out there will like you for who you are_? I hate to burst your bubble, but your pep talk took a nosedive, dear."

Peter takes a few steps until he's beside Stiles again. "Be happy you got that much, sweetheart. I imparted my vastly superior knowledge of life upon you, you should be grovelling right now."

"I feel so special," Stiles replies dryly, rolling his eyes.

"You should," Peter sniffs.

"You must like me so damn much," Stiles keeps on, snickering.

"Of course I do," Peter sneers. "As if I would do this if I didn't."

Stiles swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. He opens and closes his mouth several times before finding his voice again. "You're an asshole... but I quite like you too."

Peter nods as if that's a given, as if he already knew, and Stiles suspects something like his heartbeat or scent has given him away already. It's not normal, this connection that they share, the fact that they've gone from complete strangers to... this, whatever it is, in less than one day. Not normal at all.

But since they've already established that normalcy is an illusion, Stiles can't bring himself to care, so he doesn't say anything and tugs on Peter to get moving again, feeling strangely settled and calmer than he has in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves*


End file.
